Twilight GS : An Epic Rewrite
by leaky.oven
Summary: As lemony-lime as a week in the Keys: it's the NSFW adventures of Bernardo Charles Swan! MC genderswitch; genre overhaul; POV spices all-ups-ins this plot-warpery; snarky punk narrative exactly as obnoxious as you never knew you wanted. SLASH, OC, OOC, DE, BGR (big gay rewrite), R&R, BBQ, RPG (jk), TTYL, BBFN
1. ONE

**: X :**_  
_

_There were three things of which I was sure._

_First, Edward Cullen was a monster._

_Second, there was a part of him - however dominant - that  
wanted to crack me open and drink me like a cold beer._

_Third... to be honest I thought that was kinda hot._

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE:** First Impressions

* * *

Not so bad.

That's what I told myself, hunched in the recess of the Greyhound's sleep-seating. Not so bad, old boy. Itchy, a bit stuffy, and everything past the bullet-proof double plexiglass slowly washed out to the dull monochrome that was North-Western 'MURICA. I didn't actually know if the window WAS bullet-proof, or what any gunman would be trying to accomplish opening fire on a bus full of chubby second-class travelers (lipstick case potato chip shrapnel, the scream of iPod earbuds ripped free on impact).

They're bullet-proof back in Phoenix, the city buses that run the early a.m. hours. Or that's what they tell you.

But this was Washington State, _muthafuckaaa_, and everyone here was pasty and lumpy and silent like so much dead oatmeal and didn't answer when important questions regarding bullet deflection were raised. But it wasn't so bad, Charlie Brown (my nickname, because I am round in the face and prone to misfortune). Leaving Renee's house probably could have been some huge hand-wringing dramafest, but what Renee didn't know was that I'd be actually kinda _happy_ to see my father.

I guess I didn't know it right away, either, but my mantra was earning weight: it really wouldn't be so bad. A fresh start. Let Renee take it back down from critical and we could both eventually start to miss each other, like anytime after her new husband got sick of her shit and left. More than not-so-bad: fucking perfect. Rain, cold and fat infrequent drops of it, baptised my new life-standard as I left the bus; the water slipped down my scalp and under my collar as I stepped wobbly-kneed from the station platform to collect my luggage. The air was cool and I felt light in my clothes, safety pins keeping place in each set of face-holes as if they were the only thing weighing my head to my neck.

I was off that stuffy Greyhound and I was going to live a manly bachelor life with my Dad and they had gotten all my luggage through undamaged and - and I was going to finish school and not fuck up and Renee was going to fill my inbox with worry-mail and apology-mail and; and I was getting a car, a privilege denied in Arizona on account of the cheap and bullet-free public transportation system, and I was going to meet new people and - did I mention not fucking up? Kinda big deal, being on the straight and narrow now.

Not much trouble to get into in _Forks_ of all places. No cows to tip, no joints to smoke, the town being in that weird limbo between country and suburbia. Probably no friends to be made, either. Not that I hate people.

I love people.

Correction: I love city people. City people are all half-fat fucks and half-short art fags and hypochondrial intelligent shut-ins, suspicious of good deeds and willing to look the other way when presented with subway assault. They also have fantastic fashion sense. If you can't tell by now, I myself am a city-people. I am also shorter than my average age group and round in the face, but maybe not because I am a city-people - in fact I have my father, Charlie Senior, to thank for those genetics.

(Small aside: people call _me_ Charlie because my mother named me fucking BERNARDO. Charlie Swan the First is also known as Cheif Swan, The Sheriff, Dad, Pops, et cetera. Stop me if you're ever confused on this.)

But hey, it's not like I think the backwater and toothless are entirely judgmental about looks. If you could play yourself a decent game of foozbawl or comparable varsity sport, then you'd totally be in the club! (Guess who couldn't play a sport to save his chain-smoking ass? Maybe a competition folding mattress sheets, I could win. Fuck if this town didn't actually have a sheet-folding contest, too... it's funny because it's about racism. Try to keep up.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm neither useless nor hideous. It's just, yeah, okay, harder to make friends when you've been in one place for so long. And I'm a social creature. I _need_ to be popular. It's just... it wasn't my fault I looked like Sheriff Charlie Swan, nor that Sheriff Charlie Swan happens to be a fucking sad-looking guy. Like Billy Crystal with facial hair. He's a great dad, a great person (the whole cop thing, Eagle Scout, football and shit), but it's been sixteen years since his last relationship _for a reason_.

So, me, right? Let's get this crazytrain back on me. To cure the effect of my inherently mopey features, I have up to this point caked myself in eyeliner and pierced the majority of my face. Yeah-huh, you say, good luck getting away with _that_ at Forks High. But there was an upside to the school change and lo, Vanity was its name - that the cooler temps of the northland would allow me to finally go for that suave art-student look and grow my curly hair out without worry of accidental fro (because summers are fucking death on rollerskates to scene kids in Phoenix). Besides, I wanted to get as much mileage out of my hair before it started RECEDING and I _shaved it all off out of shame_. I had, what, maybe ten years give or take a smoking habit. Yes you care about my HAIR, BECAUSE IT IS AN IMPORTANT PLOT DEVICE LATER ON, SHUTUP.

If you haven't noticed by now this story is about ME. Gawd.

Charlie has yet to go all Captain Picard on his own and - yep, I've spotted him. Striding through the crowd with the authority of a seasoned officer and the timidity of an overweight middle-aged hick. Maybe that was unfair of me, but seeing my father only reminded me of the man I was going to be at that age (genetic science, WHAT HAVE YOU WROUGHT). We eye each other up - manly wariness, you see, that precedes an awkward half-hug. You can see it in his watery blue eyes: he doesn't recognize me from the spastic nine-year-old who used to cling to his khaki leg-pant. And maybe I'm even a little taller than him, which is not so bad at all.

* * *

"He's in a wheelchair now."

My attention snapped back to Charlie's droning one-sided conversation on the ride back to Casa Del CheetoStains. C-captain Picard is Professor Xavier? Dad will you really shave all your thinning curly hair off? "What?" I try to stifle the octave of panic and look less morbidly interested than I felt.

"Billy Black, remember? Down at La Push."

Oh. Old guy, friend of the family, lived on the Native reservation down on the coast. Father to Jacob Black, some twiggy kid who used to complain whenever we left him behind. Scabby brown knees and gape-tooth smiles of my childhood summer friends, all good-naturedly better than me at everything from fishing to fighting. The first and last jurisdiction that my name was awful and I should be called by my middle title; my father always wanted me to be Charlie Jr. anyway. '_Charles_' to future CEOs or Ivy League colleagues or what shit.

"Well. You're all getting old."

"Hmp." Sheriff's half-laugh told me he appreciated my masculine cruelty, but that I should cut the crap. "So he's not driving anymore and didn't want it to go to waste. It's not bad, for a starter."

I pretended not to be as intensely interested as I felt. "How much? No more than eight, right?"

"Eight dollars? Eight... maids a milking? Eight chucks a woodchuck chucked if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" And people wondered where I got my sense of humor.

I easily blocked the hand trying to ruffle my hair, because c'mon way too old for that shit. "Eight hundred. I only got that much budgeted for this year, if I cut out new clothes and weekends." I have surprised the old man, but you can only tell by the speedometer.

"It's a late sixties Chevy. You'll be spending that much in gas and maybe repairs if you drive anything like you talk." Zing. But then there is a heavy silence when I forget to laugh.

"Dad. How much?"

The cruiser practically slowed to a crawl, and we were almost home. Charlie was reluctant to say anything, just smiled his easy I'm-the-dad smile, and I really was almost home. "Don't worry about it, Chuck."

It was sitting in the front yard, a faded red metal bulk of a truck. It was such a beast I could have wept. At least none of my peers would feel compelled to question the size of my dick!

* * *

Ahhh, the prodigal bachelor pad. A sad old couch in a living room that should have been a funeral parlor, facing a large and ancient television balanced spiritedly on painted cinderblocks. The metal folding table and matching folding chairs in the kitchenette. One tiny filthy bathroom upstairs, wedged between Charlie's bedroom and my own. I could feel my skin crawling just stepping on the pinecones scattered before the screened porch, and by the time Charlie and I were huffing our way up the stairs with the luggage I was fully disillusioned. First chance, I'd don the proverbial apron and go to fucking town with the Lysol. Which would also have to be proverbial, and probably only vinegar at that.

Fuck me, there were cobwebs in the linen closet. Actual _honest-to-filthy-bachelor-Jesus_ cobwebs. If there were cobwebs in the fridge I would risk a motel, at least until the fumigation was over. The paint job was the same it had been in the early eighties or even, fuck, late sixties - everything a mix of bright yellow and burnt orange framed by dark stained wood. And white, if rumor was to be believed that those linoleum tiles used to _be_ white. (We pretty much have Renee to blame for this my most overwhelming concern with hygiene and household orderliness. Thanks for making your son an absolute housewife, you anal-retentive harridan.)

But enough about me. This issn't a story about a ho-hum redemption in goodhearted MURICA. Nor really about a broken family and the reunification of a gay son with his law-n-order father (he knew and didn't care and we got along _great_, thanks). No, my friends. This.

This is a _horror_ story.

I don't get to be the teenager who is making out, you know with like another teenager, in the cabin in the woods when the monster attacks. But I don't know that yet. I don't even know that my home-away-from-hometown has changed all that much. I've never spent more than a summer here, never gone to school with the kids that lived in the eensy suburban sprawl of scrubbed brick houses and supermarts and hiking outlets. I would learn that my old La Push friends didn't even attend the school I was bound for, that I would actually be completely alone, proverbial _deserted_ cabin-in-the-woods scene.

And I did not know, that I would want to make out with the monster.

* * *

I woke up looking as if I'd never touched dry Arizona soil, nevermind lived under its blinding sun most my life. Nor could anyone guess that I came from local tribal stock, eleventy times removed on the Swan side of the family. This would do nothing to buddy me up with the townies, just fill me with a vague sense of guilt for having been away for so long.

Bags unpacked to find I'd been sent across state lines with only half my personal effects, and no maternal figure from whom to borrow makeup. OH MY GOD JUST KIDDING I AM NOT THAT GAY (_it would melt in the rain anyway, u betches_). Not on my first day of school, at least. I even took out the safety pins, at the behest of the good Sheriff. I still _looked_ like a kid from a city. Maybe not Phoenix. Maybe New York. I just needed those hipster glasses and tight jeans - excellent holiday giftlist fodder just in case I had any further trouble Not Fitting In. It was actually kind of exciting. I pondered future fist-fights over my bowl of Oates-Aplenty (I did not make that up, it seriously says that right on the box, fffffff). What injuries would I receive, which teachers would look the other way during locker-room rape?

Incidentally, those were probably the same thoughts country teens had when transferring to a big scary city school. Although their nightmares might sooner have involved knives and drugs; mine just had wedgies and a teenaged infinity of dateless Saturday nights - stretching far into the future wherein I am a couch-blob pretending to care about basketball in front of the television's ethereal blue glow. _Basketball_, do you hear me? You would wake up in a cold sweat, too.

Teeth brushed, stiff new jacket wrapped tight against the cold fog, I followed Charlie out the door. "They're going to call attendance," I whined at his back. "And they're going to say _Bernardo_. And I'll never survive." You'd think I was telling him they'd ritually sacrifice the science lab gerbils, and maybe they would! I felt like any moment could be _Children of the Corn_, but it was probably just the inclement weather crawling across my nerves.

"Get there early and introduce yourself to the teachers, then." Charlie Sr. winked at me before ducking into his cruiser. He honked his horn and waved good-luck-kiddo. Probably one of those rare moments he got to be the smug parent who knew tough situations were actually good for a growing young person's development. Or some shit. I would short-sheet his bed later.

It was just me and the penis-compensation-mobile for a good forty-five minutes, creeping down the _sort of_ paved roads in the shit visibility. My stomach actually sank when I saw the school building, panicked I'd taken a wrong turn.

Imagine this: 700 kids in my graduating class back at Phoenix, near on 3,400 in the whole school. And Forks, Washington? 600 at most in the entire school ever. The foremost worry, before being the stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb new kid, before even being the gayest thing to hit this small town since sliced bread, was the mare-than-possible absence of advanced art courses from such a TINY-ASS, SHITTY UNDERFUNDED SCHOOL. I mean, one's social life is _bullshit_ compared to scholarly achievement. This was my LIFE my parents were fucking with. My FUTURE. My CAREER.

I am Jack's raging bile duct.

I climbed out of the truck smelling like gasoline and tobacco, which was probably the equivalent of coating oneself in deer piss to go hunting, but wearing the bright orange sock on your head anyway. And in this scenario the deer weren't colorblind. For what, you ask, was the bright-orange headsock a metaphor? Why, my subtle-as-a-hooker-in-church, roaring, beastly truck of course! The radio worked but who would want to compete with that lovely guttural engine? The Hood at my old block would have been _sooo jelusss_. (I know how to spell jealous, get the fuck away from me.)

I seriously was developing a crush on my truck, tho. IT WAS JUST SO MANLY AND OBNOXIOUS.

(I know how to spell 'though', too, so COULD WE NOT, SQUIGGLY RED LINES?)

Something else that made me long for extended artistic education: this whole town was saaaaturated in color. Everything was all put on moody indie filter and washed in mist, and by memory it would be all settled in that cold cloud-filtered daylight. After the rain, every leaf and twig and black scrap of bark stood out like High-Def TV. This was called atmosphere. Pay attention my babies. And the school - the school itself was so small and quaint in adorable dark red brick (like in England or something!) that I was zig-zagging from utter despair to manic artistic delight.

Like, this place would be awesome to live in - when I was older. I was so excited - for my future self. Who I'd be, who I hoped to grow up to be, that classy-as-fuck dapper gent would be _fucking charmed to death_ by this place. Move my husband here to raise our chinese daughter 'n shit. My current self, however, was a pitiable fellow. My current self wondered if they still burned heretics and weirdos. My current self saw a bonfire pit near the football field and had a mini-stroke. My current self was glad I removed the safety pins.

The front office was awash in that awful yellow lighting that had been popular before eco-friendly halogen had been invented. The carpet, appropriately gag-worthy commercial grade with flecks of orange and yellow. Papers and posters, loud agonizing clock tick-tickety in the silence before the bustle of an early school morning. Stiff stain-resistant seating for the squat and weirdly modern chairs, in case someone was carried bleeding to the nurse's office and there was a waitlist or some shit.

I vaguely wondered at where they hid the metal detectors, and how many kids had guns, and how easy it'd be to actually buy pot and actually smoke it in the boy's room - like straught out an 80's music video, yo. I would have been super excited to discover that the principal looked just like all principals do on daytime television. My old principal had been a black ex-cop, but maybe the head-honcho here would be a real pudgy Pinkerton or Feeny.

There was a large red-haired woman watering the many potted plants lining the office, who set the neon plastic watering can aside to greet me. I half expected her to welcome me to Dina's Diner and ask if I wanted to try the special; her glasses were _that bad_. "Hey hon, can I help you?" I will admit this: being the underdog had its perks with authority figures. I mean, 'hon', it was like she had gaydar pinging on red alert.

"I'm Ch - er, Bernardo Charles Swan." Wincing, because that name was sour in my mouth. "You can call me Charlie." Not that you're my friend, but you look like a gossip and maybe it'll catch on. My adorable helplessness landed me not only my entire class schedule, but a carefully explained and pre-routed map of the school.

Not-Dina-from-Dina's-Diner seemed to expect something out of me other than a thank-you, so I stood there smiling and asked when first bell was, please. In an hour, and damn my jetlag anyway. It had not occurred to me at that point that I was interesting not only as a new kid, but as the Police Chief's only son. And _that_ would never stop creeping me out, how well everyone knew everyone else in small towns, even if they didn't particularly like each other. Or maybe especially if they didn't like each other, as that was the way the gossip mill grinds.

I went back to my truck (MY TRUCK, HEEHEE - I mean, uh, MANLY BWARHAR) to take a nap and was relieved when the other students arrived in cars equally inglorious. Except for that shiny Volvo, but that was probably some confused TA's car that would get dented but good before the day was out. Stuffing the map in the glovebox (because I am man and man are for hunting grounds grrhrr also it's a tiny-ass school whatevs), I bravely clambered out of my dry-yet-fragrant vehicle into the rainy morning.

The trip to the locker was uneventful. There was no combination lock; this place operated on trust and maybe a utopian-anarchy system of reward and punishment, fuck if I know. My paranoid inner-city streak had me stuffing my jacket into my truck and locking the heavy, gummy metal locks behind me. And running my ass back inside. I did NOT have my winter fat yet, and that early morning chill was bananas. I could probably have gotten away with never using the locker, since carrying books was good exercise and it didn't look like the school had a drug-bust operation on everyone's backpacks.

Or coats. Or hoodies. Or loose pants, which could conceal all manner of sharp or explosive weaponry.

I'm not a _bad_ person, but I felt like a wolf among sheep, fantasizing about all the stuff I could get away with. Probably make an interesting sociological study: small town school safety and how it's enforced without the aid of S.W.A.T. ... I was starry-eyed over the idea of a reality show called _Highschool S.W.A.T._ when I nearly ran into the door to my first class. Classic Literature! _Fucking ace._

As per cool-kid quota (and because I'm a damn coward) I sat in the very back and watched the class file in. Perhaps the black hoodie had been a poor choice of thermal wear - I felt like a dark smudge in Forks High's repertoire of rain-battling pastels. Even some of the boys were wearing 'coral' shirts, fuck me running. I almost smacked myself for not even thinking - what do people wear in the city that sees the most rain in the entire U.S. continent? SUNNY COLORS.

FFFFFF. And then the teacher called out for me, specifically, out loud, because he was to personally hand me the reading list for the semester. Fuck My Life. "Bernardo Swan?"

For the fifth fucking time, "Yes, right here pal." I got a Look that told me one didn't call a teacher 'pal' with such insolence. There was laughing, but thank god not at me. 'Mr. Mason' - a terrifyingly sadistic name if ever there was for a teacher. I didn't have the nerve to tell him I'd already read everything on that list (because required reading overlaps, calm down; I am NOT THAT INTERESTED in Jane Eyre). Maybe later I'd bring it up at the office and they'd get me switched out. Or I could just slack off and ace all the tests without even trying. Decisions, decisions.

"You're Bernardo Swan?" asked a kid who looked like a teenaged Luigi. At least he pronounced my name in the proper, exotic Italian way.

"It's Charlie," I asserted, meeting his gaze. Gotta make that eye contact, yup. Every kid in a three-seat radius turned to stare while Mr. Mason outlined the reading course, scribbling furiously at the whiteboard, _squeaky squeaky_.

"You need any help getting around, you ask me. It's Eric." He extended a hand, which I shook because whynot. I admired his Danny-Joey-Vito attitude. He probably thought I was a tough-ass exiled here because the big bad city schools ran out of correctional programs. (Not half untrue, but hey this was Freshstartsville, wunnit?)

Mr. Mason had the good will to drag everyone's attention away from me for the remainder of the class. Eric walked me to Government class, pelting me with questions that I doubt he really cared to have answered, casting surreptitious glances to the band of girls following. (Hahaha, what, ugh.) "You from Phoenix?"

"Why, you from the Bronx?" Betting myself ten dollars he'd have to GoogleMaps that shit.

"...? No. Ain't it, like, sunny in Phoenix?" As if using poor grammar would make him sound cooler.

"Sunnier than God's asshole, my friend."

"Why aren't you tanner, then?" You had to admire his dead-pan. Some of the girls tittered, but profanity among the coarser gender was first-hand, old-hat, commonplace wot wot.

"Miracle of science." Really? They wanted to know why I didn't tan as well as the perma-baked soccer moms that cable television associated with Arizona? The ones who creamed themselves over pottery stain and draped they skinny asses all up in enough turquoise to buy a Lahota village?

* * *

Mr. Varner, in trig, actually made me stand up and introduce myself. I mean, I could have just flipped him off and jumped out the window, so he didn't _make me_ do anything really. "My name is Charlie. I'm bad at math."

The class clapped like I'd just confessed at an AA meeting.

* * *

In both hours of Trig and Spanish, I think I made a friend. She was tiny and angry-looking, like one of those chubby chula dolls with the huge eyes and the trendy clothing. Her hair was something straight out of Seinfeld, and she was aggressively interested in my personal life. Her name. (Prepare yourselves now.) Was Jennifer. _'Hennifer Lopez' _I kept muttering beneath a grin. Eric was a friend of hers, and they sat me down with some people at lunch who never got around to introducing themselves (names I would have to learn through grapevine or eavesdropping). And biting into my Dorito-turkey sandwich, I glanced across the lunchroom to get my first real eyeful of the people I actually wanted to be seen with:

They had the unruffled, pale, sleep-deprived look of the city dweller; all dressed as if they had skipped from the pages of Vogue, especially the metrosexual in the beige turtleneck. It seemed like the girls in the group wore anemia like a badge of honor, one tall and blonde and a visibly salty betch, the other short and sprightly who had probably made her debut in tragic French films with her spiky black hair and porcelain frame. Then there was the obvious sports star, built like a fridge with a chiseled Grecian profile, next to whom sat a sulky blonde kid and on the far end - the metrosexual - with tousled copper-brown hair and pale eyes and good god those eyelashes _hallelujah I'm home_! These people were _cultured_. These people were _artistic_. You could feel the intelligence rolling from their table, like they were in their own little bubble of beta-teen superiority.

Jennifer caught me staring, sandwich halfway to my mouth. "The one who is leaving is Alice Cullen. There's Rosaline and Jasper Hale, the blondies. Emmett and Edward Cullen. Emmett's the big guy."

"They're related?"

Jennifer lowered her voice. "Adopted." Her eyes narrowed. "And they're all _together_. And they _live_ together."

The green-eyed monster already, Jenn? But we've only just met! "Got any info that doesn't sound like tabloid gossip?"

Eric chimed in, "Yeah like you know, newbie." He was gaining more and more respect from me. Perhaps eventually it would come to fisticuffs between he and I and we'd be fast friends after.

I glanced between the two most recent members of the Bernardo Swan fanclub. "I could find out." Because damn if I didn't love a challenge. The three of us all stared good and hard at the group across the lunch room for a long seven seconds, long enough for my beautiful Abercrombie Model to glance our way. I caught the attentions of his light (green?) set of eyes, and that shit-eating grin that develops when one steals one's first cookie bloomed full force all over my face. Angela, of our group, got up to dump her tray and obscured the connection.

"They moved here last year," whispered a nameless peer helpfully.

Jennifer scowled. "Their 'father' is Dr. Cullen, the new director of FHC. He's too young to have kids that age, but I guess The Hales are actually related to Mrs. Cullen and she can't have any kids of her own. So they foster older kids."

"Hey that's tough, man. You know the psychology behind that, a kid gets pretty fucked up if they aren't adopted before the age of six. She probably has a lot of patience and understanding, dealing with that kinda emotional development shit." What, I watched daytime TV.

"I guess." Jenn looked like maybe she could believe the Cullen/Hale alliance had mental illness working in its favor. Maybe she just agreed so I'd stop cussing. Even Eric looked like he disapproved using such language around a lady. This _did_ seem like a low-profanity environs, as i had yet to find any dirty graffiti on the bathroom stalls (though it was early in the year yet, plenty of time for defacement).

Awesome that I wasn't the only 'newbie', though the Cullen/Hale alliance had each other and all I had so far was a humorless Luigi and a midget Chula. BUT SHIT MAN, FUCK, I GOT TO PLAY PEEK-A-BOO-EYES ACROSS THE ROOM WITH ABERCROMBIE BOYYYY.

You know, that game where you try to catch the other's eye but look away really quick I love this juvenile shit it was so exciting omg omg omg omg omg next I thought I would pelt him with spitballs and leave anonymous notes in his locker, ohoho. But by the time lunch was over Brighteyes didn't seem to think the game was cute, and when I got up to clear my tray he was studying me with a, well, a look of consternation to say the least. Houston, we have a closet case. You'll find no princess in this here castle.

* * *

Angela walked me to Biology II. She was a nice willowy girl with thin blonde hair, shy and polite and in need of many big gay hugs STAT. I did wonder when I'd stop getting escorts to my classes, but apparently the school population was so small that I had at least two classes with the same people in them at all times. Angela sat far away from me (the lab tables were assigned) and I pretended to reach for her across the room, bemoaning our separation. She laughed, but her lab partner glowered.

As did mine, 'cos it was Edward Cullen.

You know the saying 'the bigger they are, the harder they fall'? The same holds true for intense five-minute infatuations. My inner glee was not only crushed, but metaphorically set on fire and pissed upon by the following class hour. Edward Cullen did everything to avoid me, even inching his chair as far away as possible and keeping his nose in the air like I smelled bad.

Okay, little Orphan Annie? Fuck you.

~Edward Cullen~ clenched his fists atop the table and never relaxed the whole lecture, acting as if for all the world like he hadn't been playing visual patty-cake with me moments before. I didn't have time for this closet-case shit, and I didn't care how emotionally stunted the dude was just 'cos his real mom didn't wanna opt out coat-hanger style. I wasn't gonna let him waste my time. (I quailed inside, hoping his siblings weren't anything like that.)

When the bell rang, I slammed my book shut to show I got the hint already and leaned in to say my farewell. "Yeah, real nice meeting you, _pal_." Only it was the tone of voice that could have called him anything and actually meant 'fuckface'.

If looks could kill... Edward Cullen stood from his seat. Had he been that tall at lunch? Was I _actually_ going to get beaten up my first day at school? It didn't help that my nervous auto-reaction was a manic monkey grin. So instead of bowing out submissively, I laughed way too loud and winked.

"They call you Charlie Swan?" WHO ARE YOU, RANDOM MUNDANE AND CAN I KISS YOUR FEET?

"Yeah, that's me." Trying not to shake as I turn from Mr. Death-in-Versace to address my knight in cotton-polyester armor.

"I'm Mike." And his name was Mike, and he marched the animals two-by-two into the ark... "I'm in Mr. Mason's English..."

"Oh." Trying not to weep in relief as we walk away.

"I'm from Cali."

Mike from Cali, you are adorable and kind and much tanner than me. "Awwww man, so is it hard getting used to this weather or what?" Laugh, laugh, agree, agree. We had Gym together, too, and I had never been so happy to be in gym as I was that day.

* * *

"So hey, uh." What? I thought it wasn't proper locker-room etiquette to talk to other guys when they were half-naked, but there was Mike Newton breakin' all social convention like some 1960s parade bullshittery. "What'd you say to Edward Cullen?"

"Oh maaan, no fucking clue!" I laughed scornfully, pulling the numbered t-shirt over my head. "He just doesn't like my face?"

"Well, yeah man, there's holes in it." (By God, I almost fell over.) "But he's usually a nicer dude." (_Dude._) "His sister's in my theater class, and she's pretty easy to get on with."

"You've got theater?" I so very much did want to change the subject before I had to admit that I flirted with the guy and he responded, uh, not well.

"It's an after-school program, yeah. We actually need more dudes to join, not that any of the guys are complaining exactly." Nudge-nudge, wink-wink broseph. (And a week after that is the story of how I got to meet Alice Cullen, who is small and cheerful and tactful and... what, punctual I dunno she has small boobs but she's still really popular omgSHOCK.)

BUT WAIT we are getting ahead of ourselves, chickadees. There was an _encounter _before I left for home. Seeking to get my English class ditched for anything else (maybe fill the morning slot with biology and be anywhere else but next to ol' Eddie Cull in the afternoon timeslot) I headed for the main office. I had to get in line, so when it was my turn in the ugly little room there was no backing out.

Madame Redhead was dealing with Edward Cullen, while a younger brunette processed the strays milling around complaining about their schedules. I waited in one of the stiff chairs, eavesdropping as Edward spoke in a low, urgent voice that would have been alluring had it not been so plaintive. He wanted to trade his biology class with another, any other.

I was almost smug, but mostly stinging that he'd beat me to the punch and that our uncoordinated folly could have landed us in the same class again, unawares. My mission rendered totally inane, I got up to leave. A girl pushed the door open and stepped past me - I had to turn to let her through and caught a blast of chilled air that rattled papers in their wire baskets (cabin pressurization, haw). And this is the fucking prize-winner:

~Edward Cullen~ turns to me like I've just goosed him, offended and angry and fuck if I know what else. The guy isn't out of shape, either, and I don't wait to find out if he gets his schedule changed or not, I fucking GTFO.

* * *

**: X :**_  
_

_This chapter has been edited approx. 3456 tiems_  
_so please, PLEASE tell me if it compels you to read_  
_further, and if not - WHY. I be obsessing all over_  
_them pageview counts, you better habeeb. (I mean_  
_I get if it's like, 'NOT SEXY ENOUGH SOON ENOUGH'_  
_but like. The lemons are there, you just have to stay_  
_with me a few chapters.)_

_Hi. It's good to have you on this rewrite._


	2. TWO

**: X :**

_**When Bernardo Charles Swan **moves to his gloomy_  
_old hometown of Forks and meets the equally cheerless_  
_(yet undeniably attractive) Edward Cullen, his life takes _  
_a sharp turn from the usual path of delinquent thrill-seeking._  
_With his poor health, surly and anachronistic personality,_  
_Edward is both fun to tease and difficult to please. While_  
_Edward manages to keep Bernardo at bay, sheer curiosity_  
_and more than a small dose of self-recrimination drives_  
_Bernardo head-first into Edward's dark world._

_**What Bernardo doesn't realize** is that he's not the_  
_only one at risk, and plows blindly on toward the__ point of  
no return._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**: Better Than a Kick in the Teeth

* * *

So, the next day? Charlie Sr. actually made breakfast, which was awesome. Big manly omelets with bits of steak and spicy onions. I drank my coffee BLACK that morning, shityeah - which was a fortitude against the anxieties of the rest of the day, like I could walk up to Eddie Cull and tell him I had a big macho breakfast so he shouldn't fuck with me or he'd be getting greasy egg and steak all over his expensive shoes.

Yeah. Yeah man, yeah.

Also: I never drank coffee and therefore would be more prone to biting in defense 'cos I was just _that_ hyper.

Eric and Mike weren't getting along that morning, and I guess I had to mediate that. (CHESS _vs_ SURFING. WHAT.) So it was like we couldn't be the three amigos, which was MY argument. _Sombreros all around, guys_! I told 'em both I liked to draw and listen to music and it was probably on par with outing myself. _...raised eyebrows all around, guys!_

The safety pins were going back in on the fucking morrow, 'cos I couldn't handle all this _trying_ to be cool and interesting shenanigannery.

The trig teacher picked on me, though. I dunno if he had this past beef with my dad (theoretical only) or was just a huge sadistic jerk like all highschool teachers 'cos I didn't even have my hand raised and got the answer wrong when I eenie-meenie-mo'd it. I _had _told the man I was bad at math, hadn't I? We had a chat after class where he told me to apply myself instead of just giving up and I exercised IMMENSE self-control not to respond because I mean JESUS CHRIST. What part of an Art Major involved linear equation?

And all that time I was dreading lunch and Bio class, and this sick little rock in my gut that probably had nothing to do with the heavy breakfast kept anchoring me in place. I mean, I don't exactly shy away from confrontation, but a guy like Edward Cullen - what was I supposed to _do_? On one hand I felt sorry for him. On the other, I didn't want him to recruit his brothers for a Charlie-piñata-day. But mostly I was just mad. I hadn't even had the chance to really _do_ anything exceptionally homosexual and was treated like a plague rat. A short gay plague rat.

AAAUGH I MEAN SERIOUSLY. _FUCK HIM._ *rage rage rage*

DID YOU KNOW that a common side-effect of caffeine is mood swings? I had to Google that shit.

* * *

So. Lunch. Surprise surprise I didn't have much of an appetite. Hennifer flirted with Mike but I don't think the boy was receiving. To be fair, she _was_ a tiny scary chula - though in her defense, she was wearing a v-neck and you could set those bosoms on a pedestal in an art museum.

Also yeah I guess Edward wasn't there. But seriously whatever fuck him.

I waved to Alice Cullen (the tiniest Cullen of them all) on the way out, elbowed by Mike in reminder of the after-school club, and she smiled so I guess I wasn't some terrible pervy homo in _her_ eyes. I would see her on Friday, which was when the club officially convened.

_He_ wasn't in Biology either. Maybe he was at home having an emo break down self-image crisis. Heh... I mean not like I wanted to be responsible for any suicides; fucking depressing, thanks. Just. You know. Whatever, right?

I mean, looking at the situation seriously: what I told Jennifer on my first day I actually believed. Foster homes were far from perfect, secure places and being gay in a _normal_ household was hard enough. Maybe I would ask madame Alice on Friday. Yeah, I just had to bite my nails until then.

Ugh.

* * *

I came home to a kitchen full of groceries and the vision of Charlie Sr. in an old grilling apron and bright orange dish gloves, scrubbing the stove out.

"You're just doing that to get high, admit it." I dug around a plastic bag for an apple, as I was a growing boy and constantly needed to stuff my fat face.

"Well, it hasn't been cleaned since I last fumigated," Charlie killed my appetite in one fell blow. "And it's getting too cold out to use the grill when there's a game on."

"Uhn. Did you wash all the cabinets out, too? And the dishes? And the counter tops?"

Charlie grunted, exasperated as he stood from his task. "Yehhhs, Chuck. Just forgot the inside of the stove is all. Don't worry so much, pal." He removed a dish glove and found the apple I was looking for, biting into it and smiling at my discomfort.

"I'm gonna... go scrub the bathroom." I turned from the kitchen table to pull my backpack from its unimpressive slump against a chairleg.

"What about homework?"

"It's only the second day!" I disappeared through the kitchen door up the stairs before Charlie could lecture me on how school was much harder when he was a kid. You know, before computers were invented or something.

* * *

I was exhausted and covered in various cleaning agents by the time dinner rolled around. Also probably crashing from the caffeine, because I couldn't muster much energy for conversation.

"Making any friends yet?" Dad asked with an appropriate amount of concern over the salad bowl.

"Yeah, Eric and Mike." Chew, chew, yawn.

"Mike Newton? His family owns a sporting goods store down by the camp grounds."

I laughed a little to myself because only in a town this small could the Sheriff have known exactly who Mike was. Chances were there wasn't another kid named Mike (or Eric, or Charlie) in the entire providence. It was a definite plus to individuality but a huge minus to personal freedom, because you couldn't just show up to school with a different haircut and have it be No Big Deal, because you were the ONLY Mike the school had and they always associated you with Hawaiian shirts and gelled spikes.

"You know who I miss? Mike Henderson." That kid was a fucking riot. "And Carry." My best friend, who featured in all the pictures we had ever posted on Facebook. 'Scuse my while I mope into the mashed potatoes over friendships now HUNDREDS (?) OF MILES AWAY.

"Your mother send you that phone card? You could call them."

I could have called them better still if I had my cellphone, but I wasn't going to bring up that fresh wound. Renee had canceled the contract (and paid the cancellation fee, which was just stupid) just to cut me off from my friends. And then dis betch doubled the insult by mailing me a _phone card_ so I could call HER and not run up Charlie Sr.'s long-distance bill. Big fat fucking chance. The phone card remained untouched.

"Mmnh. Can I go to the library tomorrow?" With any luck they'd at least have Dial-Up and I could finally update my old crowd. I longed for Carry's acidic wit and looked forward to reading her rants over the situation - it'd be good lawls and I could have someone to whine to about the Cullen conundrum.

"Well, the weather won't be good for someone who isn't used to driving in it, but I guess you'll have to learn sooner or later."

"Sure, I guess." I suppose I should have felt elated, but bad weather was just so foreign to me that I couldn't help but feel like it was an oppressive omen.

* * *

By Friday I had almost forgotten Edward Cullen's existence, except that he had an adoptive sister and she was a terribly fun and interesting person. I was so excited for theater club that I even participated in gym class and managed to give myself a black eye circa Mike's elbow.

It brought us closer together as only athletic injuries can.

AND THEN THERE WAS THEATER CLUB AND IT WAS AMAZING. And actually Alice wasn't even the president, it was some girl named Gracy or Gabrielle or fuck I don't remember I was too busy spazzing with the other musical buffs over Cabaret showing in Seattle sometime after Christmas (like, THE perfect New Year's gift). We were convened in the empty cafeteria, with one large round table all to ourselves and the junk food vending machines humming away happily as they defrosted or whatever it was that was making that noise. At one point the president revealed several posters and wanted to keep them out of the reach of graffiti, so Alice was helped onto my shoulders and we lined the entire cafeteria in old-timey Hollywood fliers. It ended with us zooming around pretending to be a warplane gunning down our friends, she is really _that_ thin omg.

I didn't even bring up The Incident, I was having too much of a good time being the center of attention (as I was not only the New Addition and a boy at that, but I was from a large city rife with entertainment halls featuring both professional and amateur productions). I was kicking myself on the way to the library (in the perfectly clear if not slightly cold weather, thanks Sheriff) for not getting the chance to herd Alice aside. But everybody had been in each others' laps, eyes lighting up and voices rising to ecstatic squeals when something particularly awesome was brought into the conversation.

My stomach still hurt from all the laughing and it felt like I hadn't had that much fun in a long, long while.

* * *

Carry's e-mail was disparaging. Apparently my 'closing act' had left a wide ribbon of destruction down the center of my old social circle, and people were taking sides. It took a special talent, she wrote, to cause that much drama without even being in the same state. I didn't ask her which side she was on, and she didn't ask me about Forks.

So I read a note from Renee, who wanted to know if she should ship me my old portfolios. I was polite and asked if she could hunt up any sketchbooks too, 'cos it didn't look like I'd be able to get to Seattle for shopping any time in the near future. She did ask me how Forks was, and I told her it was exactly how she left it. She apologized and I signed off.

* * *

So I settled. That was my story of settling: finding an appropriate niche and sticking to those people like glue. I encouraged Hen (my widely accepted nickname for Jennifer) and Angela to join theater club, even though girls already outranked boys three to one. And of course Eric already had chess club, which had the exact opposite ratio. (Because women aren't allowed to be smart in small towns! What the fuck, gender dysphoria.)

The teachers learned that I was a class clown by default, and that I would behave so long as they didn't put me in the spotlight. It was a working relationship: don't try to embarrass me with oral pop-quizzes and I won't embarrass you with snark.

BUT THE GREATEST DAY, MY BABIES, WAS WHEN IT SNOWED.

I had never touched snow (I'd seen it in pictures and on TV duh). I wasn't about to tell my classmates that, but they just KNEW. Mike had seen snow because, hello, California has mountains? So I was, like, the Christmas virgin or some other shitty nickname. And then Mike got hit by a snowball in the parking lot (thrown by Eric, which was, y'know, _shocker_, and I got Eric back because he needed to be taken down a peg before he got to Godfather proportion megalomania).

"YOU POPPED MY SNOWBALL CHERRY, ERIC," I screamed dramatically across the parking lot, and it was like someone had shouted 'foodfight' - only with icy slush instead of mustard and salads. And I was running around too much to really be bothered by the cold, except when the bell rang and we all filed in dripping wet and shivering. Luckily my coat took most of the damage, but I'd have to sit on a radiator if my jeans were to have any hope.

The hypochondriac in me feared pneumonia, but my vanity won out 'cos I looked hella good in that straight-from-the-shower hair style, and like everyone else my eyes were bright and my cheeks were rosy from the exercise. Everyone including Edward Cullen, who was shoving Emmett, who had just tucked some snow down the back of his ribbed maroon sweater. I continued briskly to first hour.

Well. At least the guy wasn't dead.

* * *

The theater group had taken over the big round table for lunch as well (with Gabrielle getting there early and staking her claim) so that was where I sat, dangerously close to the Cullen/Hale alliance. Alice, even though a theater club veteran, sat with her siblings. It didn't seem too terribly snobby when you thought about it - they were family, and probably not too great at making friendly with people who came from normal households. Not that Emmett didn't get googly eyes from the entire cheerleading squad, but who knows, maybe the guy was just shy.

And their entire table was bare of food.

Well, that was... That was just... weird.

"-Charlie!" Black-lacquered nails snapped in front of my face.

"Hm?" I was standing over Hen, my tray halfway to the table. I sat.

"Mike's planning a trip to the beach," She informed me quietly. "But Angela thinks it's too cold for that and Sarah was going to have a party at her house that weekend. What do you think?"

"I think Mike wishes he was still in Cali, and we'd all get hypothermia. Sarah's it is." It was kinda scary how everyone agreed with me, but I knew that was the kind of power I'd have to wield to my advantage before the novelty wore off. I never even got around to setting my piercings back in, though I'd have to sometime soon or they'd heal up (worry number 567: frostbite via facemetal). Mike sulked.

I was halfway through my second helping of lasagna (snowball fights take a lot out of you) when Hen nudged me with a sly grin. "Edward Cullen is staring at you."

"Is he about to throw anything sharp?"

"I don't think so,"

"Then I don't care." And I scooted around the circle so Mike's spiky head would interrupt Cullen's view.

"You know, Edward never really dates anyone..."

"I can see why. Man has a terrible personality."

"I mean, he's been asked. Turned _every girl_ down."

"Hen, no. No _bueno_." I scolded her like a small dog, condemning finger-wag and everything. "No drama." That, and Jennifer seemed like the kind of girl who wanted to Know It All About Everyone just so she could Tell Everyone Else. Poor Mike wanted to know why I was scolding Hen, and why Edward Cullen kept looking over at him, and why a bonfire at the beach was such a bad idea anyway.

Jennifer scoffed, flipping her hair to waft a plume of _Fructis _in a five-mile radius. "I'm just saying, _mijo_."

"It's just really none of my business. Or yours! And please don't be one of those people that assumes that I'd be interested in any... any_body_ who's available. I got standards, same as you."

"Tch. I hope not same as me."

I groaned, rolling my eyes. "You know what I mean."

Mike hovers. "_I_ don't know what you mean."

"Shut up, _Michello_." Hen left her half-finished diet soda and all the olives she picked out of her salad behind for me to argue with.

Poor Blondie McSpikybits shrugged into the abyss of Hen's absence. "_What'd I do_?"

Siiiiigh. "I think it's what you haven't done, Mike." With Hen's seat vacated, the entire circle loosened up and Mike shifted out of the way as everyone re-settled with more elbow room. And ol' Eddie Cull glanced up from his empty tray at me. I held his stare and shoveled an unwieldy bite of lasagna into my mouth, unconcerned.

Then Emmett shook his snow-damp hair and doused their table and ruined the showdown with laughter. Alice escaped the impromptu dog-in-a-bath treatment to rejoin our roomier table to ask after the verdict on Sarah's party. By then Edward had cleared out and I could finish my meal in peace.

* * *

By the time Bio rolled around, it was raining. Nobody was more disappointed than I, since I'd conspired with Eric not moments before to perch in a tree and snipe who we could when school let out. I was even going to empty my backpack and use it as a satchel for the snowballs, _dangit_.

Besides that, my lab partner was back. I'd have to carry less of the work, but I'd also have to be civil. I sat just as Mr. Banner was distributing slides for the microscopes already stationed at every table. One microscope per two students - either that was some sort of public schooling budget crisis or fate was just being cute.

"Hello." Edward's quiet greeting went ignored, though his voice carried that special musical quality of someone educated and speculative. "I apologize that introductions have been delayed. My name is Edward Cullen." Good God, he even _enunciated properly_. What is that, a second-level college vocabulary? I think I preferred it when he was being emo and reclusive. I started to doodle on my folder, resentful. If he had offered a hand to shake I'd have bitten it. "You must be Charlie Swan."

"It's Bernardo." I was competing with the forecast for freezing temperatures. "My _friends_ call me Charlie." And then I did look at my antagonist, a cool side-glare I'd perfected at the dinner table with Renee.

Edward nodded once, curt and focused and all eye-contact-y. "Fair enough. Bernardo." _Ooooooh nnnoooooo_, don't be all suave and pronounce my name correctly and act all polite and non-argumentative! I'M TRYING TO HATE YOU CAN'T YOU SEE THAT? (How to pronounce Bernardo correctly: Do not make the beginning a "bur" noise. Make it instead a "bair" noise. Bair-naaah-doh. Never call me Bernie I will end you.) :D

"Okay ladies and gents, put your books away and get started."

I slid the microscope in front of myself, assuming that because Edward had been absent he wouldn't know what was going on. He took the quiz sheet and double-clicked his mechanical pencil. (No fair, I totally double-click my pencil because like one just doesn't get enough lead DAMMIT I WANT NOTHING IN COMMON WITH YOUUU.)

"Prophase," I identified. Science was one of my strong points, owing to a brief but memorable love-affair with the sci-fi channel.

"Do you mind if I look?"

YES, I FUCKING MIND. WHAT, YOU THINK I'M GONNA FAIL US BOTH OUT OF SPITE? Eye twitch. I slid the microscope over carefully, as it was heavy and the felt on the bottom of its tiny square legs had begun to decay.

"Prophase," Edward agrees flatly. Had I detected a hint of surprise, I'd have brained him with the fucking lab equipment. He dutifully scrawls the answer in the box it belongs, a looping classy script that made me wonder if he attended a private school in his childhood. Orphanage, church, ye olde English and Latin lessons, all that.

Okay, I could admire the fucker but that didn't mean I had to like him.

I was handing Edward the next glass slide and we brushed knuckles. I jerked my hand back, sucking air in through my teeth. That was _some fucking_ electrical shock - was his sweater all wool or what? He must have felt it too because the slide clattered to the hard black tabletop, chipping a corner and spinning to a stop in front of me.

"Jesus." I shook my hand to dispel the numbness.

"Sorry," Edward admitted, barely audible - because of course a static shock wouldn't be any reason to apologize and maybe he meant for his behavior last week. Maybe he'd been on the pill or off his meds or whatever. Maybe his dog had just died and I looked like the guy who drove the truck. Maybe I was just a sucker for hotties.

We traded out for the rest of the lab, leaving the microscope in place and leaning over to adjust the view while the other wrote in the answer. My print was decidedly modern compared to his cursive - I wrote in all caps, a small blocky script from a small blocky person, and placed centered my words in the answer boxes instead of at the bottom-left. We were careful not to touch, but that might have been more a Guy Thing than what-all-ever. Personal space, y'know?

So we finished before anyone else and I spent the greater amount of my free time trying in vain to get Angela's attention so I could make faces at her and pretend the guy next to me was still sick at home. I gave up after Banner cleared his throat and announced that students who had finished should bring their results to the front. I didn't even have time to _look at the sheet_ of paper before Edward was walking away with it.

I couldn't find the words... fit... pants... khaki... ass... walking... tall leggedy ... mff. I covered my face with my hands and wanted to cry a little. So hot *_sob_*.

Edward's voice was low lest it bring Banner's wrath upon us, "The rain is a tragedy. I was hoping it would stay cold." I peeked over my knuckles to find Edward frowning at the window, and it was the kind of frown he'd had when we first met - like he was concerned and couldn't understand why.

I quietly crossed my arms atop the table and settled my chin over them. "Well, the snow is great. I wish it were the Hollywood kind, though. So it could be warm."

"But then it would be laundry soap."

"Polymer-based fabric shreds, actually."

"You wouldn't be able to eat it - and it wouldn't stick very well so there'd be no snowball fighting."

I yawned heavily, stretching my arms out across the desk until my shoulders popped, before curling them under my chin again. "But you know it'd still look hella cool. That's why fake snow is great for movies; all the beauty, none of the hassle." I chuckled darkly into my sleeve, "That probably sounded really shallow. I just don't like the cold. Or I'm... not used to it or whatever." Yeah whatever. Stop talking to me. I was wary about the whole conversation, like he was the kind of guy who just couldn't stand someone not liking him, even if he was the one who really didn't like anyone in the first place. So he was making friendly just to be That Good Guy Everyone Likes.

But I couldn't, for the life of me, think of a way to pick a fight with him (a verbal one, thanks). Which was rare because aggravating people was my special talent, but he was being perfectly cordial and none too snobby and I just didn't have the energy. Too many surprises; why I never date bipolar guys.

EUREKA. He was just bipolar! Probably!

Edward then presses on to a question, casual like, as if it were of no real concern to him, "So why are you here?"

"To get my last mandatory science credit."

"I mean here, in Forks."

"I know what you meant. Don't be so nosy." I buried my head in my arms and faked a nap, well practiced at dodging that question with my peers.

Edward laughed, light and careless and fuck me, was that a flirty undertone I heard? If there had been any doubts cast by his impeccable vocabulary and sudden changes in mood, let them be trumped by that soft laughter. "Well now you _have_ to tell me."

You just _have_ to try this new cologne, it is _omg to die for_. "It's complicated." Shut up.

"I shall try my best to keep up."

"Please, Edward, we've only just met." I lifted my face to bat my eyelashes at him, but stopped mid-flutter when I saw the look he was giving me. Like I was the Sunday morning paper's Sudoku.

"I'm not the only one who wants to know." Edward's defense was half-hearted and he turned to sulk at the window again, leaning back in his chair with hands in pockets. Half the class had finished with their lab quizzes, and the conversational hubbub was gaining volume.

"Well. You're the only one who has pestered me past the 'it's complicated' line. That's usually a conversational red flag, doncha know."

"Am I pestering you?" Edward seemed smug about the possibility, aaand how!

"Fuck, I dunno, maybe I should just let that concern squirm around in your brain for a week. You know, the _incredulity_ that you could be less than perfect in someone else's eyes."

Oh, the glaring. _There _was the Edward Cullen I knew. He did not answer so I assumed I'd won and was returning to my nap, but then:

"Enlighten me, could it be anything like the _impossibility_ that last week had nothing to do with _you_? Or is it so unbelievable that there are other things happening in this town that are unrelated to the arrival of the Sheriff's only son?"

Oh, that was cuuuuute, like no really bitchy Edward was best Edward, hands-down. "Just... how stupid do you want me to be?" I laughed like we were just chums discussing football or whatever so we'd not attract attention, sitting up and cracking my knuckles idly.

"I'd like to pass this class, so not terribly stupid... if you could manage."

And that was the story of how I got sent to the Principal's Office for letting a giant F-bomb loose in the middle of Biology class. It was even an F.U. class, which warranted a call home.

* * *

"The guy is unbearable! He's a snob and a jackass and I don't care if he's adopted or if his family's the greatest thing since the Brady Bunch!"

"The Cullens are good people, Bernardo, and Dr. Cullen is the best thing to happen to this town. He could have gone to any hospital in the country - in the _world_ but he followed Esme's wishes to live in a closely-knit community and he came here."

"That's pseudo-bureaucratic favoritism bullshit! And it doesn't mean I have to play nice with his stupid brat son!"

"No. But you do have to follow basic classroom etiquette. Now, I don't know what they let you get away with down in Phoenix, but in this town things are a little more old fash-"

"Hookers and blow, dad. They drew the line at murder, _barely_."

"Young man," Charlie Sr. was trying not to laugh, gripping the back of the kitchen fold-away till the tin hinges creaked. "You need to learn to control that mouth of yours. I hear you're giving teachers lip, too."

"_They pick on me._"

"Honestly, Charlie?"

"I don't cuss at _them_."

A heavy sigh. "Well that's a start."

* * *

Good news that night: Renee had mailed me not only my portfolios and a few new sketchbooks, but also my bearings and gauges! It was like meeting old friends when I needed them most, and in my face they went with only a little difficulty, tugging at my ears and nose and eyebrows and lip with what gravity affected them.

Bad news the following day: Edward Cullen was treating me like I smelled like a wet dog again. And it hadn't snowed overnight, either, so everything was cold and muddy and difficult to look at.

Thanks to the F.U. incident, Mike was treating me like I was the Dark Knight who just punched Harvey Dent in the face; and thanks to the shiny bits of neon and metal now decorating my persons, Mike could not shut up about how 'hardcore' I was.

"I'm actually a huge wimp. I just wear these things the way butterflies wear like, you know, giant predator eyes and shit on their wings."

"Ha. You are no damn butterfly."

I clapped my hand over Mike's mouth. "Don't say the D-word. They send you to prison for shit like that nowadays."

Laugh laugh, shove shove.

* * *

I made it through Bio class, _barely_. I addressed Mr. Banner with the idea that I could be Angela's lab partner and he told me the real world didn't work that way, the twat. Edward didn't ask me any more personal questions, though, so that was a definite bonus. Angela passed me a note asking if I had a girlfriend back in Phoenix, and if it was the girl all over my Facebook. Which was a definite... not... bonus.

Banner had the projector set up in the back, right next to our table, and its little cooling fan kept blowing hot, stale, plastic-scented air right in my face. Ol' Eddie Cull kept his hands knuckle-white on the edge of the table, tense as a fuckin' violin string.

Er, I mean 'a _darn_ violin string'.

* * *

**: X :**

_Fun with narration tense! Or, How Bernardo's inner thoughts run in _  
_the present tense alongside his dialogue, while the POV narration _  
_runs in the past tense and has to stand on its own._

_Pls tell me if/when this crap gets too jarring or like, derails the flow. _  
_I try to keep the monologue from running away with the narrative, _  
_really I do, but it all kind of blurs together if I ain't careful._


	3. THREE

**: X :**

_**Strangely compelling and modestly** readable, _Twilight G.S.  
_will have readers scoffing and rolling their eyes right until_  
_the very last link is clicked._

"This Y!Gallery rarity is praised by a handful of completely  
unprofessional lolcats as Best Parody of the Year."  
~_Some Website Somewhere_

"Propelled by snark and explicit slash, [this rewrite] will keep  
readers madly scrolling through the pages of MaussHauss'  
titillating debut."  
~_Unpublished Weekly_

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE:** Watch the Other Hand

* * *

This morning, I did not want to crawl out of my igloo of blankets and dirty clothing. There is a marked difference between Air Condition temps and Winter temps and it is that Winter temps fucking blow. (I'd at least get to buy some of those nifty thermal shirts to wear under Metal-band tees just like that hot bully in the Breakfast Club, haaaha!)

SNOW. Everywhere. Making everything difficult to touch, difficult to walk on, cold and noisy to step in. I suppose it was even less charming because it wasn't falling from the sky, instead having been caked up around the corners of the world like bright sand across a windy boardwalk. The fog of my own breath startled me, like a bird about to slam into the side of my head or something. Or a flying possum. Or a really pale fist. (The last is a VALID CONCERN amiriiiite?) And under the snow, a thick layer of re-frozen rain.

Thermodynamic Science is awesome but also a pain in the ass.

Charlie Sr.'s cruiser was already gone, off to his busy day of shuffling documents and ordering grunts around (beer and chess, most likely). But he'd chained Clifford's tires AND scraped the windows, which meant he must have been awake in the middle of the night or some crazy shit like that. The threat to short-sheet his bed was disengaged.

I don't know if it was the shivering or the fact that I had a sparse breakfast of leftovers, but my stomach felt light and fluttery. I'm no exact stranger to the romantic scene, but so far the guys at Forks High hadn't been anything over which to get one's boxerbriefs in a twist. Maybe I was just looking forward to aggravating Edward Cullen s'more. I mean, it was just so damn easy! Just sit quietly next to him; works every time.

My nose was numb and my ears stung from exposure (see, metal does this thing where it conducts other temperatures really well), and Clifford's heater ran overzealous so that I was at once too cold and too hot. I would get to school not only smelling like tobacco and gasoline, but _burnt_ tobacco and gasoline. The tire chains gave excellent traction, though I still drove at a crawl (which I heard is murder on gas mileage but so fucking what I'm not getting up at ass-crack of midnight to hitch a ride from Charlie Sr. and wait at school for five hours or whatever; so I'm never gonna crash the big red guy).

Also, new nickname suggestion for giant manly red truck: HellBoy. Yes? No? Too much proof of a big gay crush on Ron Pearlman?

But aside from concentrating on the road like any good doobie, I was worried about the developments in my shiny new circle of friends. Hen, I was pretty sure, knew I was a big dirty cocksucker. Some people just know. Angela, however, and the rest of them for that matter, probably were more forgiving of my rakish charm and high vernacular. But honestly, shit, I'd never had to explain myself to anyone before, and I for sure didn't think I'd get any romantic entanglement in _Forks_ of all places. Actually I was just scared their parents would give my dad shit. That probably sounds courageous or nice or whatever, but if I got run out of another town I'd have nowhere to live.

Yeah. _Another_. Film at eleven.

And I'm not psychic, swear, but anybody could smell smoke from the coming conflict with Hen. Most people don't respond well to being nicknamed after barnyard animals, surprisingly enough, and she already had way too much information on me for this to end well for either of us. (Fuck this fucking drama! I just wanted to graduate and blow this fucking popstand!)

Lucy pull the football up on you again, Charlie Brown? You'll never learn... I didn't even have a Schroeder or a Snoopy to keep me company. Baww.

* * *

I was kicking ice and road-impacted snow out of Clifford's huge-ass tire wells when it happened. I turned to witness a handful of the Cullen/Hale alliance climbing out of the Volvo, and warily eyed ol' Eddie Cull from a safe twelve or so parking spaces away. He looked around in unison with his siblings, as if they all heard something on the wind... like a flock of Meerkats (WHAT I WATCH DISCOVERY CHANNEL SHUT UP).

And, of course, Edward turns one of his charming death-glares on me. Like it's my fault or my radio or whatever, but fuck him the engine was off and everything. And then he's not twelve parking spaces away, but right in front of me, fist in my coat front. A painful spike of adrenaline stabs my chest and there is a loud screech and crash and I am on the pavement - all protest knocked out of me by shooting skull pain and bright light. I am covering my face with my arms because I am just that vain, the weight of my assailant pinning me in the dirty parking lot snow. I take a wild swing and meet empty air, turning to climb to my knees and elbows, swaying in pain so vibrant that I puke. (Remember that breakfast-on-shoes threat? Not an empty one.)

I managed to at least crab-shuffle away from the steaming puddle of half-digested leftovers and sink to my back against the bare cement of the sidewalk, breathing shakily at last.

The back of my head throbbed and burned while the pavement rocked beneath me, whispering a story of sobbing classmates and panicked instructions. And all the time this figure just out of vision, a pale hand hovering like a breath in the air. It took a moment for me to process the words through the echoing memory of a loudLoud pop of breaking glass and the wet crack when I had hit the lot - like a gunshot in jello.

Someone was shakily calling my name, on the other side of the wreckage. I wanted them to shut up, and tried a tentative sit.

"You need to stay down."

_Fuck me._ "Ff-what hap'nd? _How did you even-_?" A hard grip kept my shoulders squarely against the wet pavement, the cold sinking through my clothes straight to the marrow of my bones. Shivering hurt the back of my jaw.

"We were talking. I saw the van before you did."

"Nnno, you were-"

"You have a head injury."

"Fuck, really? What the fuck did you just _do_?" I got a glimpse of the score - Clifford+1, Mystery Mobile -4. The crowd of early school-goers melted into view, surrounding us with panicked bedlam.

"You're bleeding!"  
"Don't move."  
"911? I'm calling from the Highschool-!"  
"Get Tyler out of the van!"  
"You need to lay back down-"

Fuck it. I hooked an elbow around Clifford's front bumper and hauled myself upright, leaning my snow-soaked backside against the still-warm hood as the heady smell of motor oil sank its claws into the back of my throat. I struggled out of my jacket to save it, too many gingerly helping hands telling me I should lie back down but keeping me upright as I wobbled. The woolen collar of my bomber jacket was soaked dark in blood and a hot trickle ran down the hollow of my back and caught itself on the hem of my jeans. Was I all right? Let me see here... "I don't fucking know what fucking just fucking happened. Shit. _Shit._ My truck."

What more, there was a solemn certain someone next to me the entire time, pale face hovering like a breath in cold air while his siblings watched from afar.

* * *

It seemed like the entire school had arrived by the time the ambulances did. The stretcher was a little embarrassing, but I could at least close my eyes and pretend I was back in bed.

"You have to stay awake."

"Not sleeping."

"Keep them _open_."

"Are you the p'ramedic? No." _And fuck off, I don't want to owe you anything._ The clack of the stretcher heralded the roiling transition from bitter winter morning air to sour medical cabin.

"Actually he's right. We don't want you slipping into a coma if you're concussed. Can you tell me your name and how many fingers I'm holding up?"

I had a finger they could both count.

To my surprise, Edward laughed at this. It was a desperate, relieved kind of laugh that startled me. Probably didn't bother the paramedics. They probably thought we were friends.

Maybe we were? I couldn't exactly trust my own memory, though. I'm a solid individual, psychologically speaking (yeah, yeah, I know right?) and I know what I saw. I saw a look of pure malice on Edward Cullen's face when we first met, I didn't make that shit up. I also saw him very clearly give me that same look from way too far away to save my neck in time. First off, why would he want to? Secondly, _how_? I mean, adrenaline can do anything for anyone, within reason. I'd have at least seen him cover the distance, crouch into a running stance, push someone out of the way, anything.

Not just... there then here. And it's not like his brothers shared any family resemblance, so there was no mistaking him.

"Bernardo, don't fall asleep." The voice was closer than I expected, or maybe the rocking ambulance had shrunk around us. I opened my eyes just to roll them, and got snagged by the set of hazel-green with the pupils dilated like inkblots. Maybe _he_ was the one with the concussion.

I felt like if I blinked, he'd disappear.

Here, then there.

"Your father is behind us."

Latently, I heard the siren. "How d'you know it's him?" Plenty of police escorts for ambulances, even a fire truck (or was that vice-versa?).

He shrugged a shoulder. "Just a guess." He didn't break eye contact, and suddenly the ache wasn't just in my bones but also in the air, sharp and thick. The musk of snow-soaked fabric, metallic and unpleasant, rubbing elbows with some sort of expensive cologne. Just under that, decay - like the bottom of the leaf pile you left tucked in the corner of the yard for a year.

I was going to vomit.

I closed my eyes and breathed through my mouth.

* * *

Open, shut. That one must have been Tyler, a bloody smear of a face under gauze.

Charlie, pale as a sheet under the unflattering neon lights and looking about twenty years older from this angle. And rather fat.

The bright red spots left behind on the sheets, like someone had slept on an open sharpie marker.

Open, shut. Emergency room separated by curtains instead of the higher-end plexiglass I'm used to. Stale, sharp antiseptic smell of a hospital. O ye memories of emergency stomach-pumpings past.

* * *

"We're going to have to take those out. Tongue piercing, too?"

"What are you, perverted?"

"_Bernardo Charles Swan_. I'd hit you if the van hadn't beat me to it."

"No tongue ring, ma'am."

"MRI" is an acronym for a tanning bed that takes photos. "This is ground control to Major Tom," I hum quietly until they ask me to keep _completely_ still, please. The hospital gown is papery and thin and I am glad I chose to wear the black undapants - it didn't matter if darker color showed through the gown so long as my ass looked fabulous hanging out the mysteriously humiliating gap in the back of every hospital robe since the dawn of sadistic doctoring.

And you're going to laugh at me when I tell you my main concern was how far behind I'd be on schoolwork if they made me stay overnight.

I was shuttled out of the tunnel-o-blinding light nice and slow, though every movement hurt from my teeth to the back of my eyeballs. They were afraid to give me meds in case I had an internal bleeding issue, the stingy cunts.

And then the doctor walked in. You know. The chief Cullen. The man behind the familial madness. The head honcho, the big chee - _holy shit_. I almost thought they were playing some huge joke on me, like a camera would pop out from behind the x-ray and announce I was a guest star in Grey's Anatomy or House or Scrubs. Fuckin' _forget_ about Doctor Dreamy, this guy was Doctor Turn-Your-Head-and-Orgasm.

"How did you get him to shut up?" Asked Charlie Sr.'s award-winning, high-handed humor.

I hadn't responded to the doctor's introduction, but what did he expect from someone with a head injury?

Doctor Cullen is of average height and delicately figured, which is something you wouldn't expect of a man who is supposed to be a father figure to a handful of grown teens (one of them much larger than him and at least three taller). He is pale and his eyes seem bruised, but it isn't the color of his skin so much as the solidity (if that makes any sense at all). He's an almost swarthy tone, real India-scholar, but as if someone had adjusted his opacity to 30% or so. Whatever, nerds were just pasty I guess. He smiles affably enough, shaking Dad's hand with a chuckle that I _did_ recognize. "Charlie."

"Carlisle."

No faaair, I wanted to be on first-name basis with Carlisle!

"What's the diagnosis?"

"Seems to be just a bump. May require stitches, but we can do that kind of thing with superglue if the young man wants to keep his hair."

I thought he was kidding. A nurse walked in, gave me some meds (finally), and prepped the back of my head with cold stinging alcohol. The good Doctor's hands were gentle, but ice cold. (I once heard that doctors' hands are cold because hospitals are kept a certain temperature to prevent the spread of germs, even if that meant the patients would feel like they were being glued together by one of those robotic bomb-defusing arms, all rubber glove and no flesh - like the things in Jurassic Park that turned the dinosaur eggs.)

Yeah, man, that was it.

Were... were the Cullens _robots_? Fucking not-eating-anything-at-lunch, moving-faster-than-a-car, short-circuit-mood-swing ROBOTS?

Pff. Ha.

Haha.

Uhh...

"So, any dizziness or tunnel vision? Tinnitus or displaced aches? Edward said you hit the ground pretty hard."

"It aches pretty much everywhere." I couldn't be a smart-ass to a hot doctor when I wasn't even wearing any pants. Otherwise I'd have told him my toenails were the only thing in pain and could he please kiss them better?

"Nausea?"

"Not any more."

"If you get dizzy or if your vision blurs, I want you to call me. I'm going to assign 24 hours of alertness; you'll be able to use caffeine or we can give you a gentler stimulant."

_I think I just blew a load into my bellybutton._ 'GENTLE STIMULANT' I MEAN COME ON. Too many rib-nudging jokes to make, so little time.

"Caffeine works just fine on this one." Charlie Sr. claps me on the shoulder none-too-roughly.

Go away, Charlie Sr., I am having a moment and your OldSpice is fucking it up. Once I had found my voice, "I'm gonna miss school?"

Dad actually laughed, the bastard. Like I was a slacker! You don't know me.

Doctor Cullen (hee) nodded. "I'm sure we can arrange for someone to get your schoolwork to you. Seem to be plenty of volunteers waiting in the lobby. But I'm serious about staying awake - if you can't do it on your own we'll have to keep you here overnight." All I heard was 'do it on your own' and 'you here overnight'. Nudge nudge, wink wink, high pitch giggle.

"I'll be all right." I deliver a manly stoic nod as thanks while Charlie laughs in that relieved/nervous way I had been hearing a lot. But this time I hadn't done anything funny, and they were already shaking hands and mumbling to each other about medicinal dosage and ways to keep me awake at home. Eventually I was just glad to be wearing pants again, especially walking into the lobby to check out.

I leaned heavily against the main counter and tried to hide from all collected in the lobby, ducking behind slow short bullying Charlie Sr., who stepped away to let them at me, the traitor.

"Uh, hey, thanks for coming out," I supplied lamely, hands tucked firmly into my pockets and shoulders bunched tight under an old T-shirt Dad kept tucked in his overnight kit. Tyler was also present, released with scratches that didn't look as bad when they weren't bleeding profusely. His baby-blues were swimming as he approached me.

"Look, man, Charlie, I am _so sorry_. Dude, you have to believe me-"

"S'all right." I shrugged, though my face felt tight. "You get the twenty-four hour sentence, too?"

"Ah, naw... you? That sucks." It was maddening, how everyone else (teary-eyed and shell-shocked) stared and stared and didn't talk. What, should I have charged for tickets?

"C'mere for a minute?" I woozily strolled as straight as I could to one of those those closed-off waiting rooms for grieving families or people with kids that didn't know the meaning of 'sit down shut up and behave'. I left the door open to Charlie's inquisitive glance over the insurance forms, and grabbed Tyler in a one-arm embrace. "I'm okay, man." Poor kid shuddered and broke, sniffled, wiped his raw face with his sleeve and nodded. "Are we cool?"

Tyler warbles an embarrassed laugh as the bro-hold is broken. "Is Cullen okay?"

"You kidding? Fucker's _unscathed_."

Tyler had to have himself a sit-down, "Ohh, thank God."

"Your folks gonna kill you?"

"Haha. Yeah."

"Sucks."

"Yeah."

I drift to the doorway, leaning on the jamb while reluctant to leave my hiding spot. I couldn't see the collective of twenty-odd students and faculty, but I could hear them - subdued conversation and the suggestion they should all get back to school since everybody was safe (made by a teacher, of course). Maybe by senior year I'd stop being a novelty item. Or maybe their behavior was just a small-town thing, and it wouldn't have mattered _who_ had almost been a front-page tragedy.

* * *

Sheriff Swan called Renee and got me to talk to her with trickery and lies. I had to take the portable upstairs because I didn't want him to see me sobbing to my mother about how much I hated it in Forks and how all the bad luck in the sky seemed to be aimed at me. There are some things a guy just doesn't want his dad to see and 'weeping like a little girl' happens to be on that list.

But also I'd been awake all day and a night and I was cranky and exhausted and all moody-hyper from the coffee and Red Bull (IReallyLikeRedBull RedBullREDBULL). And Charlie Sr. thought it'd be a good idea for me to speak to my mother about the accident before I went to bed.

She had an expected amount of sympathy and wanted to give me a million hugs and promised she'd take me to Seattle for a weekend sometime after Christmas. "It'll be good to see the countryside again, and we can stay in a hotel and maybe go see that big show they're featuring in the Milton."

"Cabaret isn't really a family show."

"Oh, well, we'll think of something. I'll even leave Phil behind. He can spend the time with Macy."

I was just fine with that, and about to ask if she'd stay on the line till I fell asleep (shut up) before the doorbell rang. It was Dr. Cullen, here to check up on me in my natural habitat before I was greenlighted for some serious fucking slumber. I'm sure if I hadn't been so tired I'd have cared that I was in ratty sweats and my t-shirt advertised chicken wings at Hooters, but sleep deprivation can do wonders for one's Give-A-Fuck meter.

Yeah also Edward was there to give me my collected classwork, and Charlie offered Carlisle some coffee (we had plenty, haha) so of course us chirruns was sent upstairs by Charlie Sr.'s request, "You've got about an hour before you're home free, so give Edward the ten-cent tour, wouldya Chuck?"

Dad, you're an asshole. Have I ever told you that?

I was too tired to be glib to Edward, who stood there with classwork in hand like he'd gotten lost on the way to Harvard's stylish old England halls. I pointed out the rooms as we passed them, "Kitchen. Door. Living room. Office. Stairs." Let me tell you something; men don't care who enters their bedrooms. It's a popular practice to set up sweet-ass gaming systems on one's desk and have friends over hanging out on the mattress on the floor. No big deal. We climb the stairs. "Sheriff's room." It's even less of a big deal when someone a guy _likes_ is in his room. If he's a neat guy, his room'll be neat, and if he's a messy guy it'll be messy. Men like to be honest about that sorta thing. "Linen Closet."

My room wasn't messy. Well. I wouldn't recommend eating off the floor or anything, but I wouldn't care if the President of the United States wanted to hang out right then and flip through the stacks of National Geographic the Sheriff had forgotten about in the back of my closet. "Bathroom." But I would never let Edward Cullen into the place where I slept and wanked. I stop and turn at my bedroom door. "That'll be ten cents."

"What's in the room behind you?"

"Is your deductive reasoning chip on the fritz?"

An appraising stare, followed by a half-laugh, half-question noise. "I don't understand."

"Are you a robot?"

A long, terse silence. It was amazing how still Edward could hold himself. "Hmm. Yes." I didn't like that smile. That smile didn't say to me 'you found out my secret'. That smile said 'you are not the brightest crayon in the box'.

"Fukken liar." I try to pull the slammed-door escape, but Edward catches the handle and shoves the schoolwork into my arms. "Oh."

"Goodnight, Bernardo."

The door closes with a small click and I must have stood there in the middle of the room a good two and a half minutes just holding the book and folders up like a shield. Finally I zombie-shuffle to the desk to set them down. "I... thanks, I guess."

And from the hallway, a scoff: "You're welcome."


	4. FOUR

**: X :**

MaussHauss _has experience as a faulty kitchen appliance  
and carries a heavy knowledge on the nature of swamp  
creatures both large and small. _Twilight G.S. _is her first  
web-published fanfiction and has earned *praise from both_  
Meyer_ fans and peers who wouldn't pick up a tween novel  
at gunpoint__._

_*drunken encouragement, much akin to getting that co-ed_  
_to take off his top and dance on the coffee table._

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR:** Popularity

* * *

Went to school the next day, time passing like shuffling cards. Maybe I was jet lagged from head injury, or what.

Down the empty hallway to the cafeteria I noticed a janitor closet left ajar, the damp mildew smell of old mops filling the hallway.

I tried to close the door, but there was a springy resistance, like when a rug gets caught over the runner.

Edward Cullen's bony hand wrapped around the jamb, shoving the door open much like he had two nights ago. Glaring with empty eyes, black liquid dribbled from between sharp, gapped teeth. "Beepbeepbeep," he said.

_Beepbeepbeep,_ the alarm clock repeated.

Unannounced side-affect of cranial damage: spooky-ass, fucking vivid dreams? I could still taste bile in the back of my throat, rolling out from under heaped blankets, mouth cottony and eyes gummy. Glaaaamorous life, mine. I fumbled the alarm off the bedstand, slapping at it ineffectually and steeled myself for the new day.

Not only would I have to be tolerant towards Edward, I'd actually probably have to be _nice_ to him. It might have been halfway through Trig that the situation fully collapsed. I looked up from page 326, problem 3, chart b to answer the question with what my calculator had prompted only to find that the entire class was staring at me. The eggheads in front had even craned completely in their seats to hear my answer, which was off by only 2.

My response to such impromptu spotlight: "Well slap my ass and call me Sally! It's a boy, doc!" - while making sure to gape directly into the faces closest to me, like this was some big important news and seriously fuck them and fuck off and quit staring.

To which Mr. Varner, bless him, deadpanned: "How about I just call you Charlie, and send you to the hall?"

Wilma-Flinstone-forty-years-on was at the office, but she didn't say anything. I was laying back in a waiting chair, prepared for a brief uncomfortable nap when Tyler Crowley himself staggered in.

"Miiiistah Crowley, buh nah nah nuh-naaannn..." I hummed, because I honestly could not remember the rest of that Ozzie song. Tyler gave me a look like he'd actually, honestly never heard it before. Like I was some badass music inventor. Prrrrobably didn't know about the dark book, either, the wikkle bumpkin.

"Look, man, you know how sorry I am, right?"

Puzzled stare. "Yeah. They givin' you shit, too?"

"You know how people get. They won't stop with the bad driving jokes. The JOKES. Like it's funny!" And he is sitting down next to me oh god no shut up go away you almost killed me I can't fake the sympathy...

"Well." I straighten, my ass starting to go numb from the hard seating anyway. "Humor is how people deal. Trust me. I know."

"But it's so stupid. Even Lauren, my girlfriend, Lauren? Even _she_'s giving me the, I dunno, that _chick_ thing, the cold shoulder you know? And mannn, I didn't think it'd be that icy, and I wouldn't have been speeding if she hadn't kept me up all night on the phone and made me late-"

What, had I thought the remainder of my school career was going to be _easy_? That people would just forget the greatest mini-disaster to hit their town since my mom uprooted herself and left a divorce behind for their Sheriff? Did I think Tyler would go back to his social circle and I'd retire to mine and we'd never have to speak again really?

What this shit ain't fiction.

"I wonder if Cullen's getting even half the harassment."

I don't think Tyler hears me beyond his spastic apologizing, but then: "Cullen? Uh. I almost forgot he even had anything to do with it. I mean, I hardly saw him but I guess people say he pulled you out of the way or..."

I am pleased by his puzzlement, and ready to compare notes, "Pushed, actually. And I didn't see the fucker either." I've got Tyler's undivided attention. "Actually, I _did_ see him, but he was too far away to have possibly...! Just bam, cement."

Tyler leans back, shaking his head. "It all happened really fast - "

I sit forward, pursuing the idea, "Too fucking right it did. You know what I think - " The office's heavy oak door slams open, its brass handle ringing as it strikes the wall. It soothes my frazzled ego that Tyler had ALSO nearly leapt out of his god-damn skin at the noise; and I don't understand why I half-expected ol' Eddie Cull to waltz into the room, but his giant brother filling the doorway was suspicious enough for me.

Emmett slowly scanned the office with a fine set of silver-gray eyes set under a heavy-but-not-caveman-heavy brow. 'Strong' would have been a good word, but then it was also the appropriate word for his entire... everything. Strong. Cut and strong and a little bit befuddling, damn you latenight Spice channel what was I saying again?

"_JESUS_ CULLEN, what the hell?" Tyler breaks the hunka-burning-jock spell with his outburst. I am brought to reality - no matter how broad and aloof Emmett Cullen may be, he was still subject to the pressures of his peers.

"Sorry," Emmet smiles, embarrassed? Faking it. Totally faking it. "Guess I don't know my own _strength_." He's eying me up now, and I get the nagging feeling that he's trying to say something without actually saying it. Or he could have been calculating the projectile properties of one Bernardo Swan when colliding with one Tyler Crowley through one bay window. Adding up the interference trajectory of potted plants, blinds, witnesses, et cetera.

I swallow audibly, feeling my adam's apple slide thickly against my trachea and get stuck somewhere on the way back down.

* * *

Later that day I tried to approach Edward in the hall on the way to lunch, meaning to thank him publicly. He was flanked by his brothers, who all but crowded me out and glared me down until I fell back to the lockers grinning outta half my face. Their behavior was mildly excusable - I wouldn't want the guy almost responsible for my own brother's death to be cozening up to him, either. If I had a brother, and a sociopathic paranoia of good manners.

Nobody of the Cullen/Hale table looked our way that afternoon, and even though Gabrielle reassured us Alice would be at Sarah's party (which had so serenely been postponed to next weekend), she no longer sat with us. Or waved. Or smiled.

Needless to say, my babies, I felt dismal. But.

Where had _the Cullens_ been when their brother was hospitalized? Standing far away from the crowd, unconcerned and even angry...? Not at the hospital, not that I'd heard or seen. It even seemed like they weren't talking to Edward, either. No more snow pranks on he, their most posh sibling.

Whatever; it was none of my business.

You know what WAS my business? How to get alcohol involved in Sarah's totally parent-free weekend bash. A problem most pressing, you realize: Grandpa's hard liquor in the punch, or bribing someone's sibling to buy us a _bonifide_ keg?

* * *

Several things happened during Bio, and I am to this minute shocked at what followed. Seriously, I can't fucking believe ANY of this shit.

First off, Cullen wasn't even there. So much for thinking we were sorta friends.

Secondly, Angela practically lay in wait just inside the door to ask me if I was going with anybody to Sarah's party. You know... _with_ anybody.

And I was literally backing up when Banner opened the door with his elbow, arms full with a box of supplies. Door meets head, stars erupt. Since I wasn't allowed to curse, I just made a lot of _tsssk_ and _hsss_ noise, wobbling my way against a wall as I clutched the soft spot at the back of my poor head with both hands. I think Banner might have apologized, but I couldn't hear it over the uproar this caused the class, which would have been flattering if it weren't so scary.

Accidents happen, guys! Poor Banner. Poor Angela! Babydoll looked like she was going to cry, and insisted on coming with me to the nurse's office. Once free of the 'all right, settle down' address Banner was delivering to the class, Angela pounces. "You probably really hate it here," she laughs in that self-abasing way only girls know how to do.

"I don't hate it," I protest muzzily, wobbling my way through the hall. "There are some pretty great - oh, _wow_." I had to get out of the building right then, get some fresh air, get some cold, clear, fresh air.

"Ch-Charlie?" Angela follows me out the front doors, one slender arm extended toward the office as if to hold on to the original destination. I march on, wishing the dizziness would clear away before I set the record for best known sidewalk painter. Angela and I eventually plant ourselves on a bench nearer the parking lot, hip to hip to fight the cold. I put my arm around her thin shoulders, about to crack a joke involving hamburgers and the eating more thereof. "You don't have to be nice, you know." Angela rocks back against my arm, scoffing that terrible sad laugh again, "I'm probably nothing like the girls at your old school."

Talk about kicking a guy when he's down. "Um."

"I just thought we could... if you don't really like me then you should just say so."

Girls. Are. Complicated. "I want to be your friend, Angie." Could we please please please have this conversation later?

"I'm not as pretty as Jennifer." Oh no. She's crying. HER FACE'LL FREEZE.

"Actually, you all look the same to me."

Puzzled, hurt stare.

Siiiiigh. "I don't... uh, ahaha. Uh. I don't _go_ with girls. I didn't plan on going with _anyone_ in Forks, at all. Still don't plan on it, sweetpea." Angela shivers in place, thinking this over or stalling for time in the arms of her crush (geehee). I rally enough chivalry to suggest, "Hey, do me a favor? Go ahead and tell Banner they sent me home. Get yourself inside and get warm." I stand Angela up from the bench, but she's not going to look me in the eyes and I count myself lucky she doesn't shove me backward in the snow. I don't even know if she'll give the message to Banner or not, but at this point I don't care because it is turning out to be one shitty day and why not just throw a detention on top of it?

It's so cold that by the time I get to my truck my hands are shaking. I drop the keys, but they don't make it to the blackened slush that lines the cement. They are dangling in front of my face, held there between two pale, long fingers. With perfect cuticles, the bastard.

"Where are you going?"

"_Where are you going, and what do you wish_ - one of my favorite poems. Give me my keys, _Edward_, I am very sore right now and I left my coat in there." My head is pounding and I am not allowed to be rude to you, so fuck off and we'll fight sometime else.

"You aren't driving."

"Home, yes."

"Not after that." There is a stranger opening Clifford's door and pulling my coat out and closing Clifford's door and handing me my coat and wait... what.

"You weren't even _in_ Bio. Give me _those_." I am trying very hard, ladies and gentlemen, to be polite. Also to not burst into tears because Edward is tall enough to hold my keys over my head like a bully in an after-school special program and I am so dizzy and Angela hates me and _sob_.

"I... I saw you stagger. You probably shouldn't have been allowed to drive today anyway."

"FFF - what the fuck - who do you think you ARE?" I am not a shining example of distinguished behavior as I try to get Clifford's keys back. I think at one point I try to climb him.

"I am the son of a doctor." Edward puts his hand flat against my chest and pushes, slowly. My heart squeezes. He smells like leaf piles left by the roadside and new clothes.

"Yeah. Well. You're also an effing delinquent violating truancy. Give me my _keys_, Cullen." I say this to his back, voice cracking. DAMMIT.

"I have a note. Where's your excuse?" Was he smiling? DIE. IN. A. FIRE. The stupid _stupid_ then opened the passenger door of his stupid shiny Volvo and gave me this stupid expectant look and dangled my stupid keys like you'd dangle yarn in front of a stupid cat. I leaned a hip on the sun-warmed side of the car, crossing my arms and feeling more than a little housewife-at-midnight, refusing to come to bed because George smelled too much like the pub.

"What were you doing out here, anyway?" I tamp down the urge to shiver, gripping my coat to my chest because I still can't believe he actually took it from my truck and actually gave it to me - a serious breech of personal boundaries. You don't touch another man's car, for one, and you sure as fuck don't order him around.

"Listening to music. What were _you_ doing out here?" He gives me a Look.

"You saw me stagger, remember?" I try be as snide as possible without actually spitting.

"I mean to ask what you were doing out here with Angela Lowe."

I am too sick to laugh. "You sweet on her?" That... would explain a lot. Actually.

But the "No." he gives isn't too fast or too slow, and he even looks a little insulted. Hahaha, gaaaaay. But then he chucks my keys into his car and I am no longer amused.

"Damn your _fucking_ eyes." I climb in, and the door shuts quietly just as I spot the bright green of the little plastic frog charm peeking from under the back seat. (It keeps Charlie Sr. from grabbing the wrong set; I really have no special love of frogs. It was the manliest they had at the copyshop. Shut up.)

"Interesting choice of thanks," Edward climbs back through the open driver's side door, tucking his stupid long legs under the stupid steering wheel.

"I'm not allowed to take rides from strangers," I blurt. Fuck me. This can't get any worse. Before he can think of some catty rejoinder, I counter: "So what music did you think was more important than our blood-typing lab?" The 'our' came out naturally enough - we are lab partners, after all, and I think I had an academic right to know.

"This time, it looks like..." Edward shuts his door and keys the ignition to bring the sound system to life but doesn't turn the engine over, sliding the disk out of its six-disk reader (with its boner-inspiring sound system) to read it. "Iron and Wine."

I laugh, "Southern. Cryptic. Moody. You would."

"It's Jasper's."

"Mkay whatever, Poe." I settle my coat over my front and try to lay my head back, wince, lay it on the side looking away from Cullen. I catch myself in his side mirror. Dark circles in a shell-shocked face; no wonder he practically keel-hauled me away from my truck. Say what you will about closet-cases, there is no escaping the mother-hen instinct, nor the compassion that us queers inherently share for each other (no matter how badly we might get along). The radio leaps to invade the disk-free silence and I close my eyes against the sudden burst of a little ditty about Jack and Diane. They are only two American kids trying the best they can, after all. Bobby Brooks jeans, and doing what you please, Jack. 'Cos it was all the rage in the eighties to fuck in a copse of woods off the side of a tasty-freeze stand or however that goes. La la la.

"Fuckin' - _boundaries_, Cullen." I slap at the hands that were fastening a seatbelt around me, catching the recoiling buckle to finish the job myself, eyes still closed.

"You were asleep."

"So it is your habit to assume. Why do your brothers hate me?"

"They don't; or at least I don't suppose." The engine turns over, but it's so quiet compared to Clifford's guttural victory cry that maybe I really am sleeping. "They're... Hah, I guess they're afraid of you."

I crack an eye, catch Edward's profile studying the road intently as it passes under us unfelt. "Oh, well. That's not so unusual."

His eyes flicker to me, a flint of faded green in a colorless face. Veins gray and unlovely lacing through his lids when he blinks. "You are being blithe."

"No. No, I understand." Teenaged fear that the big bad Gay might take your nancy brother beyond the point of No Return. Especially since there was the whole life-threatening situation to bond over. It didn't paint the _entire_ picture in a clearer light, but it helped.

"You do." The question is too hard around the edges; it sounds like an accusation.

I grin. I am so fucking tired of this situation already, it is no longer the big fun chase I thought it'd be. "This is the part where I tell you that you can talk to me whenever you need to. And that it's okay; that I'll be your friend. And then we spend four months or longer pretending to be friends when all I really want is to fuck your prissy little brains out."

The car does not slam to a grinding halt like it wants to - anti-lock brakes make emotional driving VERY difficult (almost as obnoxious as those modern horns that sound like asthmatic clownfarts). It slows rapidly enough for me to lean forward or risk bumping my poor head against the seat when the inertia is supposed to kick in. Edward lifts his hands from the steering wheel, taps a fingertip or two back into place and grips it anew, face settled into stone. His mouth is so thin it looks like a scar.

You can practically see the words '_prissy little' _skipping through the air around his head as he slowly accelerates again. I keep my laughter inside, curled up in my stomach - it gives off a bitter taste.

* * *

I suppose Edward Cullen is used to controlling his emotions, because by the time we get to my house he's the picture of hospitality. Probably figures I said what I did to get a rise out of him, which wasn't true at all but would serve the moment. Blithe, indeed. Too fucking right I'm not going to give two fucks what your orphan-ass is wangsting over this time. (Waaaah my rich adoptive parents want me to be a doctor when I grow up baaaaw my macho brothers pick on me soooob I'm a giant trendy gay et cetera.)

"So anyway," I love that segue. It feels good to pretend it was a conversation interrupted by the arrival home, instead of my nap. "What I mean to say is thank you for saving my neck. Or... life or whatever. My pretty face. Thanks."

"You're welcome, Bernardo." Edward cuts the engine, twists to fish my keys out from under the backseat. I catch a hint of pale stomach as his shirt pulls up, and close my eyes against dirty, dirty thoughts. "Still dizzy?"

"Mmh?"

"Wooziness, nausea?"

"One of those." I can't... I can't find the seatbelt latch. And once I do, I can't find the door handle, haha. Whaaat. Edward is out of the car and opening my door and looking all the much like he's going to walk me to the doorstep. Maybe like a prison guard more than a gentrified date. (Did we forget the 'fuck your brains out' part, or are we still stuck on being called little and prissy?)

"You have Carlisle's number."

"Hmp. Yeah." I climb out into the chilly overcast afternoon. I am kinda hungry, but no worse for wear. "Don't you call him 'dad'?"

He shrugs, shuts the door. "His name is Carlisle."

"Harsh. Forget I asked." I walk a few steps, feel the tugging presence of someone following behind. But when I turn around, Edward is leaning against his stupid smooth-ride Volvo, arms crossed. He isn't even looking at me. "Uh. Dude." I shrug my coat on - even though I'll be inside in less time, I feel suddenly exposed. "Keys."Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen Edward show an emotion that wasn't intense anger or related. Surprise looks good on him, makes him look as young as he is. Sorta brings him down to my level, you know? Off whatever pedestal the entire school had set him on before I arrived. Maybe that was part of his problem, who knows? I wanted to let him know as much, but bluntness seemed to be taken as sarcasm so far. Probably just shaken up that someone had noticed his SUPER GAY behavior, but he's neutral enough when we meet halfway in the middle of my yard.

He doesn't offer the keys up and I don't reach for them. "I am not at all prissy."

"No, you're not."

"Tell me what you're thinking." He is close, and his eyes are trying to drill down through my aching skull. I look down, see his fists clenched.

My laugh is damp, it feels tired even in my chest. "I already did."

"I'm not even remotely homosexual."

I laugh so hard it stabs me all the way from the back of my head to my boot-heels. I stagger to the front door, wiping tears of pain and mirth as Edward browses my keychain for the right key. "Right now," I amend, trying to soften the insult of having lost my shit so completely. "I am thinking about sandwiches. Hahaha. Hmm. After you, my totally hetero-normative robo-savior." But he has paused in our small porch (well, it feels small with him in it anyway) to stare at a book I left laying open on the wicker chair.

"Did you do this?"

"No. Uh. Charlie's habit. Kind of an old man hobby, besides fishing and baseball." I lied, because there are parts of me I wanted to keep far away from Forks.

"Really." Edward picks up the sketchbook and studies the render of our front yard, which was honestly a little heavier with shadow than absolutely necessary.

"No, not really. That's mine and put it down. _Always_ with the _touching_..." He is going to play keep-away again, I can tell. Probably to get back at me for being such a turd all the time, but I have a way to cut the bullshit short. I pluck some imagined lint off his shirt collar, studying his neck before flicking my eyes up, only half a smile that my snakebite bearings tug against and

snatch the book so quickly sideways it sounds like a slap.

Yep. Surprise is a good look on old Eddy Cull.

"Bernardo." The front door is almost closed, but there is a hand wrapped around the edge and a strength like gravity keeping it open. For a moment some fear slips through my memory into my face and his pupils grow big as they drink it up. I want to brush his fingers when I take the keys from him, but he drops them swiftly enough and closes the door and by the time I wrest the door back open Edward has fled the scene.

Closety bastard.


	5. FIVE

**: X :**

_CHAT LOGGING, now with 100% genuine chatting errors.  
You love it like a fat kid loves cake.  
_

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**: Breadcrumb Trail

* * *

Fucking around in computer comprehension class again. (I mean, really, and I half expected the History course books to tell us the cold war was still raging strong, too.) So I'm IM'd by this total stranger, says he read the article I contributed to the online Forks High newsletter. Wanted to compliment me and drone on about the Civil War, right? Figure he's someone's well-meaning grandfather, but I sign off when class ends and don't really expect any follow-through.

Come home to see Renee had mailed me a brand new laptop, which was her way of putting a bandaid over my whole almost-died breakdown without lifting my exile. But whatever, whoohoo! I drive with this shiny black James Bond baby all the way to Newton's Olympic Outfitters, which has free wifi (the Cisco-fed Newtons couldn't conceive of a town where every store didn't have wifi access, parking lot hilariously stuffed with tech-savvy non-hikers therein) and spent the evening chatting to Renee and a few leftover friends (who politely refrained from asking me anything about Forks, thanks guys).

And the chat guy pings me again. We talk about a few things; the town, the school's football team, you know, old-guy stuff. I'm beginning to think he's mistaken me for one of his grandkids, or is just a lonely old bastard, but then we get on the topic of religion and I sign off from sheer panic. Pretty certain I'd hinted at my dating preference and I didn't want this guy to be interested in Saving Me or whatever. This goes on for three days, and the things we discuss range from world politics to how beautiful the hiking/camping/hunting areas around Forks can be. A part of me suspects he might be an internet creeper, and I am insanely eager to get a pedo busted on CNN like it's not even funny.

Fourth day, Thursday, Miss Klein's computer comprehension class again:

**Chicago1906:** You're well-read for someone your age. Any reason for this, or has it never been pointed out to you before?

**ArizonaBurn:** my mom took me halfway across the country to raise me on her own, trying to survive on paychecks from retail and burger joints in which she was too naive to succeed. we couldn't afford cable and the library was the free alternative to daycare. I'd chewed my way through the entire children's section by the time I was nine, and hit up Kipling and Dickens for spare whimsy. By age twelve I was knee-deep in Byron and Chaucer. Never gave Shakespeare much credit, except for his _poems_. Shakespeare's poetic works are a gay kid's bible. Which I have read! A bit dry, if you ask me.

**Chicago1906:** (But you only read it for the sordid illustrations, right?) What are you reading now?

**ArizonaBurn:** (haha! busted. :D ) Let's see... I'm just now starting to try and read Don Quixote. Only the version with footnotes galore, though, since apparently it's not exactly a timeless classic? Just a classic for it's time. Spanish politics back then... yeah. I see much the same with Dostoevsky, a lot of his nuances and references are a direct commentary on the politics of that age, but you can pull more from his stories without being a Russian peasant. Such is his everlasting allure: life is a beautiful tragedy.  
**ArizonaBurn:** And Anton Chekov INVENTED the short story.  
**ArizonaBurn:** Not until his later stuff, though.  
**ArizonaBurn:** A lot like Frost or Orwell in that respect, hah.

**Chicago1906:** Agreed. Many authors are similar, some change for the better and others not quite so.  
**Chicago1906:** What's worse, though, changing in a way your readers might not like or not changing at all?

**ArizonaBurn:** Touché. It's good to grow gradually, gives a reader fair warning. And most I've seen has been for the better. but if a writer is going to change his style dramatically and without precedent, he better do so under a pen-name. (like Stephen King, only not as cheap and crappy)

**Chicago1906:** You don't like the King?

**ArizonaBurn:** I like... Elvis.

**Chicago1906:** But all his stories remind us that there is no monster more terrifying than a human being.

**ArizonaBurn:** Nor more crass! I dunno, I can't get over his shock-factor gags and messy narrative. There are some i like, none I really love, and a few I actually regret reading. Ever read "The Long Walk"? I want to slap whatever editor pressured him into rushing that one.

**Chicago1906:** That's sarcasm, then.

**ArizonaBurn:** god, YES. It's literally a long walk. highschool fundraising, only with the guns and masturbation brought right out onto the track! Maybe I should just slap his editor, period. Or him.  
**ArizonaBurn:** ..He might knife me. :P

**Chicago1906:** That's an unusual stance towards crassness. A lot of people enjoy morbid fascinations.

**ArizonaBurn:** You mean a lot of teens, right?

**Chicago1906:** Not every Roman was a teen. Lion pit, defenseless usurpers, et cetera.

**ArizonaBurn:** Okay, you know the christians were nothing more than occultists, right? If you were a roman emperor, and some cult popped up in your multicultural merchant city and started brainwashing your denizens to drop materialism and persecute anyone who wouldn't accept their jealous and highly exclusive and super strict deity, what would you do?

**Chicago1906:** I wouldn't throw farmers at gladiators. It was fitting that those people took a stand, they weren't exactly the merchant elite who so easily stood on the backs of others.

_(**ArizonaBurn** is idle 1:34 pm)_

**ArizonaBurn:** So there are a lot of puns in Don Quixote that have to be explained in the footnotes. I mean, they just go on and on. I can easily see why it'd be an entertaining read for its time, but I can only handle reading five pages at a sitting.  
**ArizonaBurn:** I'm also juggling a collection of Aesop's fables and Grimm's Complete Collection, maybe I should fill in with some Gregory MacGuire.

**Chicago1906:** I like puns. I've read Don Quixote, but I can't remember much more than the tragic aspect of its main character.

**ArizonaBurn:** He's so _earnest_, it's hard not to love him. Even though this translation does the obnoxious thing and outright tells the reader that Quixote is earnest and lovable, instead of just illustrating this fact by his actions and dialogue on their own. Gets redundant.

**Chicago1906:** Would those be the footnotes?

**ArizonaBurn:** Nope, it's right there in the narrative. You can definitely get the storytelling 'voice', though, so maybe he was writing for people to read aloud to each other.

**Chicago1906:** Considering the price of books and the literacy of villagers back then, most likely. So, you're well read. Any other reason why you speak so well for someone your age?

**ArizonaBurn:** As far as speech can be expressed over the internet, you mean? No, not really. Words beget words, especially in typeface.

**Chicago1906:** I was alluding to you having been raised by a single parent. A lot of children, especially sons, gain an early sense of responsibility in situations thereof.

**ArizonaBurn:** My mom and I took care of each other. She didn't have a drinking problem or any abusive boyfriends and i didn't have any siblings to look after, so no. I've actually been called pretty childish sometimes. What about you? Did your grandkids teach you how to use the internet?

**Chicago1906:** I've never been married.

**ArizonaBurn:** So says the man who actually thinks marriage and child-bearing are exclusive!

**Chicago1906:** I'm only seventeen.

**ArizonaBurn:** Oooookay, that just kinda tilts into the creepy internet liar category. What happened in 1906 in Chicago, then?

**Chicago1906:** Nothing you can't google for yourself?

**ArizonaBurn:** Just throwing a popular search engine around isn't going to convince me you're a highschooler. How and why did you even get my sn?

**Chicago1906:** by looking over your shoulder, and because Miss Klein doesn't allow talking.

**ArizonaBurn:** ALSDKFJALSKDFALSJ GOD DAMMIT CULLEN I FUCKING HATE YOU

_(**ArizonaBurn** is idle 1:58 pm)_

**ArizonaBurn:** why didn't you just say it was you?

**Chicago1906:** You never asked.

**ArizonaBurn:** that's a cheap fucking copout answer

**Chicago1906:** Also, I seem to be in your constant disfavor. It was the wise choice.

**ArizonaBurn:** it was the creepy creeper choice

**Chicago1906:** Do you always tell complete strangers your life story?

**ArizonaBurn:** I'll talk like that with anyone who can muster the fucking conversational wherewithal.

**Chicago1906:** Just not me?

**ArizonaBurn:** maybe I just don't really want to get involved with you

**Chicago1906:** That is fairly wise.

**ArizonaBurn:**i am just on a wizened tangent I guess

* * *

But of course that almost-warning gave me a little thrill. Why wasn't it a good idea? We obviously had a lot in common (besides the obvious, ha)... And for whom was it not a wise decision? The only disastrous thing that could happen would be a romantic entanglement, and _that'd_ definitely be worse for Edward than it would for me.

* * *

**ArizonaBurn:** I changed my mind. I'd like to get involved.

**Chicago1906:** No.  
**Chicago1906:** Why?

**ArizonaBurn:** Nerd outreach program.  
**ArizonaBurn:** Your sister told me you don't have a lot of friends, and maybe that anachronistic element of _your own_ has a lot to do with it. We can wear tweed vests and smoke pipes and complain about the government together! :D

**Chicago1906:** I like the American government.

**ArizonaBurn:** course you do, gramps. 'MURICA. you also like the bible, ugh.

**Chicago1906:** It was the only book I had as a child.

**ArizonaBurn:** That doesn't surprise me. Look, we at least need to talk.

**Chicago1906:** I'll be online the usual time. You can always talk to me.

**ArizonaBurn:** I mean face-to-face. Mano-e-mano.

**Chicago1906:** But you're much more informative online.  
**Chicago1906:** Politer, too.

* * *

There was no good reason why we shouldn't have kept the barrier of the internet between us. I, for one, could never contain my snark so well as when I had the ability to backspace over the hair-trigger responses. You can't delete the things you say out loud. But much like prodding a sore tooth with your tongue, so it was with pursuing Edward Cullen. It hurt a little, but that was never any reason to stop.

The end-of-hour bell rings and I catch Edward at the door, "The Artful Codger. If you were from a Dickens novel. Orphan, old-timey. _You like puns._ Saturday eight a.m. town library."

"Libraries generally don't promote conversation."

"Hah! The library isn't open that early on a Saturday. It's just a place to meet; they got, like, benches 'n shit out front."

"Why don't I save you the trip and we meet at your house?"

I let a few people pass, stepping out into the hall and batting my eyelashes over my shoulder. "Isn't that a bit forward, Edward? I'm unmarried, after all; the neighbors might gossip."

Edward follows, and people seem to automatically relent him passage. "You don't have any neighbors. Your house is surrounded by scenic Washington landscape."

"And he doesn't even blink, ladies and gentlemen!" I announce to the busy hallway, arms thrown up touchdown-style.

"Carlisle says there's a deer trail in your backyard. If it's not raining, you could show me."

"A walk alone in the woods? This is bear country you know." Why was I saying no? Hadn't there been something deliciously stirring in the 'you could show me' line?

"Hah. Not for miles. Or is it you don't want to be alone in the woods with _me_?" A hopeful tone?

Nay, I shall not be bullied! "I'm not afraid of you, Edward Cullen. I'm _attracted_ to you, which I think is probably worse."

"It is. Much worse."

God help me, I giggle. I giggle like a fucking burly debutante. Oh dear, Eddie Cull, you are _doomed_.

* * *

It was warm(ish) that Friday, snow melting into steamy fog all across the roads. The clouds threatened their usual rain, but didn't make good on their menace. The lunchroom wasn't especially crowded, on account of what passed as Good Weather in Washington and opportunists driving themselves to better foodsource.

I was studying a half-fallen Theater poster when Edward detached from his siblings and sat himself at one of the many empty perimeter tables. Now, you can't tell ME how stupid lunch table hierarchies are and why we shouldn't really care who sits with whom. But I was _agog_. Maybe I was falling into that small-town mentality, where constants are never interrupted unless there's a tragedy. Alice stood halfway to the theater table, biting her lip, brow scrunched down over her elfin face in deliberation.

"It's okay Al, I won't leave him to the slavering groupies." I patted her shoulder, collected my tray of food and sat myself on the other side of the rectangle fold-away I was pretty sure could hold at least ten stalker girlfriends. As it turned out, the only thing I rescued him from was looking like a friendless dweeb, because nobody bothered us.

Edward broke the silence first, "It seems your companions think I have stolen you." An air of detachment and that single-brow quirk I like so much on big closety intellectual queers.

"You should demand no fewer than one million gold sovereigns for my return."

Edward smiles, laughs. Oh man I like it when he laughs, hnngf. He even hides his smile behind his hand, how fucking adorable Japanese-wife is _that_?

"So what's with your exile?" I asked around a sip from my coke. Edward had plucked the bottle cap from my tray and was spinning it on the table between his fingers, which made me feel all wiggly inside because you don't exactly play with the cap of the soda of someone you hate _shut up I can dream_.

Edward frowns. "More like an escape."

I drop my voice, "Do they not let you eat? Would you like some of this?" Because daaamn.

Though I guess my concern pulls up a panic, nary a bad word to besmirch the Alliance, nay! Fucking nay! "Uh, no... No, I guess we just don't eat at school. European custom - heavy breakfast, late tea, late supper."

"Aaaand we're back to assuming I'm a fucking idiot, are we?"

Edward actually manages to look ashamed, haha victory. "Don't have much of an appetite at school, is all."

"Social anxiety disorder, or are you just afraid it'll ruin your figure?" I toss the little cardboard boat of frenchfries in front of him. "Need ketchup? Allergic to imitation potato?"

Edward's frown hovered while he picked the stray fries that had toppled and set them back in order. "These are real potatoes. I can smell the dirt they were grown in."

An awkward pause in our banter, like stepping through a false stair. I scratch the back of my neck, sitting upright. "Uhhh, if you just don't like it..."

Edward tapped the (my) bottlecap on the table, deliberating. And then he _growled_, plucked a fry from the pile and bit it in half. It looked like he was trying to chew and swallow a bit of shoelace he'd found in the parking lot; bits of glass and tar and gum an' shit stuck to it. Swallowed. I offered my coke to wash it down, but was waved away. Edward paused in the middle of pushing the fries gingerly back towards me, just froze like the DVD reader of life had hit a scratch, eyes glued somewhere over my shoulder.

A stillness settled over the cafeteria, conversations subdued. The hair on the back of my neck stood up from one of those uncomfortable almost-shivers, where you want to shrug and shake your limbs and scratch until the tingly feeling disappears but are too absorbed in the scene, waiting for the ax-murderer to pop out of the basement, to do so. "Edward?"

Edward's eyes snap back to me and he deliberately relaxes. By the time I turn around to confront the bad mojo (maybe flip someone off), the Cullens and Hales had vacated the cafeteria.

"I can only imagine what you're thinking." Edward laughs at this, like it's a relief.

I force myself to take a bite of the pizza, but have trouble swallowing. "Is your family okay? Are you okay?"

"Don't be concerned, Bernardo. They'll get over it."

"You're not... A-are you ill? Do you all have some specialized illness, and I mean Carlisle is a doctor - and like, would that french-fry kill you? Or - diabetic stroke or - I mean dude you're not anemic or - ..."

"It... _is_ a kind of illness, yes." Edward says this so reluctantly I'm glad the cafeteria is still quiet enough for me to hear him. He spins the bottlecap between his fingers and the ambient noise picks back up again, cautiously.

I'm looking over the bridge of my pizza, half the cheese sliding to the tray. "Is it contagious?" _FUCK ME, THE BLOOD TYPING LAB HE SKIPPED._ He, a straight-A Mr. Perfect, ducking out of a lab. Oh man, call me shallow but I don't want hepatitis or, fuck forbid, the Hiv.

"It can be," he says to the bottle cap, flipping it over and over between his knuckles, then he meets my stare, and I can only imagine I look... uh, judgmental. "Bernardo, calm down."

I swallow air, the pizza drops with a damp slap of grease. "Dude, but seriously, are you... _copacetic_?"

"I think I should be asking you that."

A silence as I gather the boat of fries to the tray, push everything aside, clutch the soda bottle in the space between us.

Edward sighs, leaning forward to match my elbows-on-the-table challenge. "Some days can be good. That's all we aim for, my family and I."

"Your whole family?" Mrs. Cullen couldn't have kids, Mr. Cullen fixing everyone, going so far as to adopt all those teenagers, who all had the same dark circles under their eyes...

"Yes - look, since this involves them too, maybe we should talk it over somewhere more private." The invite for the walk in the woods, the offense taken when I insinuated he was gay...

Charlie Brown, you are one retarded fuckstick. "Hrm. So. Not a robot?"

"Hardly." Edward flashes a toothless grin. "Don't look so disappointed."

"I... just. Dude. Does it ever hurt, do you get really sick - or - ?"

He holds up one hand. "Later. Please trust me." A nod at the plate off to the side. "It's wasteful if you don't eat that."

"Lost my appetite."

"Why? What are you thinking about?"

"Bringing an umbrella Saturday. Why do you always ask that, anyway? Been told I don't self-edit _enough_."

"Not true. You are a total mystery."

"Well, I'm gay, we've pretty much established _that_ to death. And I really do like you, despite your best efforts. Theeere isn't much mystery after that. If I'm thinking about anything that isn't napping or sandwiches or homework, you'll hear about it."

"Now that is a lie."

"Haha, riiight, replace 'homework' with 'fucking'." I leave the bench to throw the food away before it offends either of us further. "How did you know I was lying?"

Edward stands, tosses me the bottlecap. "It's the only time you look me in the eyes."


	6. SIX

**: X :  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**: Legendary

* * *

There are parts of me I never wanted to bring to Forks.

There were also parts of Forks that I never wanted to bring to the rest of my life. My childhood haunt, the La Push area trailer homes and scenic beachside park, for starters. I owed a conversation to Billy Black, to thank him for the truck and to get an update on everyone (was Sam in college now? Did Embry's arm heal crooked? Has Jake stopped peeing in houseplants?) - but for some reason he and Charlie Sr. were out of sorts. I guess even old dudes have their small-town dramas, but when I pressed dad for more information he got all pissy and told me to clean my room if I was going to be awake so early on a weekend.

Thus I sat on my unmade bed brooding over the yearbook Renee had sent me. She'd torn out all the pages that had Gordon on them, which was a message I couldn't quite decipher. So I sat on my bed scribbling a face as I remembered it - too-young TA trying to act the adult by growing a patchy beard. Fresh out of college, and full of midwestern naiveté. Heavily resisting the urge to stalk him on Facebook was hard enough, but in the privacy of my own sketchbooks I could do whatever the hell I damn well pleased.

Or was it just childish defiance, because Renee had torn him out of my life figuratively as well as literally?

Two and a half pages of 'artistic nudes' later: I'd missed breakfast and Edward was in the house asking the Sheriff my whereabouts. I jumped at the knock on my bedroom door - fresh shirt halfway over my face. I hadn't heard Edward use the stairs, and those were the creakiest damn things to ever sabotage many a midnight snack-pillage.

* * *

"Going out on the trail, guys?" After Charlie's prickly behavior, his chummy use of the term 'guys' gnawed on my nerves. I was half afraid he was going to warn us not to huff paint or smoke pot or whatever it was my fellow Young Adults did in this no-horse town to waste time.

"Good weather for a hike," Edward answered while I pulled my jacket from the coat stand. The dark circles under Edward's eyes were less severe, and he seemed to be in a fairly chipper mood. He and the Sheriff threw smiles at each other like it was a tennis match, neither willing to be stoic despite my best efforts at bringing a little severity onto the scene. We weren't exactly going out to skip rope.

My stern mood seemed to catch on once we were out the door, Charlie Sr. heckling about stray wolves and axe-murderers and fire-fighting anthropomorphic bears and other forest danger shit as we left. Edward cut his laugh short, glared at the empty road past the stretch of frozen mud that would become a front yard again in spring. The shift in attitude would have been creepy if I wasn't so used to it. What _was_ creepy was the preternatural way Edward's stone-cold gaze followed the car before it even showed through the trees - a rusted Buick of indeterminable year and model, patched like something a Frankenstein's monster would drive.

Once parked sluggishly in my driveway, out of the driver's seat clambers a willowy kid whose familiar mug sent my heart sinking. Panic; I had all facets of my facemetal in, eyebrow nose bottom lip, ear lobes gauged with neon disks, my hair was down, and I had even applied eyeliner (because bad habits are difficult to break, and fuckoff a guy can hope). The cigarette I had halfway to my mouth disappeared back into my coat pocket as Jacob Black hefted something from the backseat of the car - a cumbersome metal-and-leather bulk that unfolded into a wheelchair.

I could see the outline of Billy Black through the windshield, but he wasn't getting out of the car despite a short argument over the open window. Jacob finally looked up, eyes passing over us without much recognition. Last I'd seen him, he was a barbeque-smeared eleven year-old prone to charley-horsing me because it was both a painful prank and a play on my nickname.

Edward was glued to the porch. I opened the house to holler at the Sheriff that we had company, but he'd been twitching the kitchen curtains and was pretending to be busy as far away from the front door as possible. So I turned, exasperated, and snapped my fingers in front of Edward's face, promptly waved away like a fly. Edward seemed intent on activating his robotic eye-lasers for use on the Buick.

Feeling like the only one left with any balls _or manners_, I stepped through the porch door to approach our visitors. Jake blinked at me like he was seeing me for the first time, and maybe that was a spark of recognition in the dark eyes behind the inky black curtain of hair (hiding acne, no doubt), but I still had to introduce myself. I didn't get to thank Mr. Black for the car, though, because he had a lot to say and even more to ask (deep, sonorous voice sinking nostalgia-teeth into my reserve) - mostly along the lines of what Edward Cullen was doing here, exactly, and why I'd choose such company, and how careful I should be around certain people. A lot of implications that were either well-founded discrimination or just plain old-dude's paranoia of teenagers and their wacky beige turtlenecks.

Jake looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die, like o my gawd. Mr. Black didn't even ask for my father, which was my assumption over his visit. It was football season, after all, and that was always sorta their Thing.

Now, normally I'd tell a guy to go fuck himself sideways for such hurtful insinuations against my choice in friends, _especially_ considering the circumstances. But Billy Black was like an uncle to me, imposing and austere. That his giant frame had shrunk so much in my time away was heartbreaking, and it felt as if he'd diminished in more ways than physical.

"Did you wanna come in?" I offered in place of answering all the questions.

Jake's enthusiastic-puppy 'yes' clashed with his father's resounding, horrified 'no'. Billy even clutched the car door like he was afraid his son would try and drag him out of the open window. _Afraid_. Never a word I'd have applied to Billy Black before that morning. But I realized he was actually clutching at his son, to keep him from going.

My stomach went cold. "Anyways, I'll tell dad you stopped by. Thanks for the truck."

"We will talk more later." Billy waved, dismissing and imploring at the same time. "You are welcome to visit, any time, Burns." Leveling that heavy dark-eyed assessment at me, oh you rotten bastard thanks for making me feel like a nine-year old. "Call Jake if you have any trouble with the Chevy." The booming voice rang after me across the yard. I waved as they drove away.

Edward seemed discomfited. "I should probably go." His arms were crossed defensively, and I wanted to explode into a whiny rage -

IT'S BECAUSE I'M GAY. IT'S ALWAYS THE GAY THING. Always '_I don't want my son at your house'_ or '_I don't want to be seen walking into the woods with you'_. Well okay so those weren't exactly vague examples but COME ON. I try to tell myself '_it's not 'cos you're gay, it's not 'cos you look different_'. But in the end, really, what other excuse is there? I'm polite! I'm smart! I don't always dress like a walker of the night!

I spat on the lawn and slammed both the porch and front door after myself, feeling manly and angry and sad.

* * *

Needless to say, I was fully intent on getting bombed out of my goddamn _gourd_ at Sarah's party later that night. Turns out, it really is difficult to get your under-aged booze on in a town this small. Everybody knows everybody else, right? So if you do something bad, thirty people know by lunchtime. And they are all fukken narks.

So by the time ten-thirty rolled around, the only option was to water down whatever Sarah's parents had in their cabinets - and nobody wanted to do that, for many good reasons.

I'll admit this right now, ladies and gentlemen of the jury: I pulled a social _faux pas_ and ditched. Normally I'd lift a party up on my shoulders and shower everyone with playlists and antics. But there was no way I was going to be dragged into the inevitability of Spin-the-Bottle, Truth-or-Dare, and Twister. Nor was I going to spend another minute in vain attempt to ignore my two closest friends at war with each others' tonsils on the couch. Right next to me. Ruuuude.

The straw that the camel filed an assault complaint against in a court of law: Alice asked me why Edward wasn't with me. Like, _with_ me. Fuck if I know, sweetie! Your incredulity is touching! I sighed, felt the air fill and fill my lungs, and didn't let that breath out until I had the cab company on the phone (in the seclusion of Sarah's father's office, which was a lot like the principal's office in _Buffy_).

Pickup address confirmed, but the destination? Did anybody in their directory know the seediest nightclubs in Seattle? Haha, no? How about the nearest bus stop within the city limits? Because cab fare fucking kills, but not as surely as drunk driving.

I got back to Sarah's the next day sometime around noon, stumbled out of the cab with John Q. Public's spunk still in the back of my throat, covered with glow-in-the-dark plastic baubles. Cough.

Yes, they wondered where I went and were actually pretty worried. No, I didn't tell them and was kinda a huge jackoff and peeled out of the street like - uh, like those guys who drive fast when they're annoyed. As much as my truck _could_ peel, that is - more like a roaring lurch. I lurched out of there like a badass glow-in-the-dark hickeymonster, still a little drunk but whatever the entire town was in church and not on the roads and I could careen after as much startled wildlife as deemed satisfactory.

So there.

Fuck.

_Fuckshitasstits._

* * *

Charlie wasn't home that evening, probably for the best. I just needed a distraction to keep myself awake; every time I closed my eyes my brain decided to vividly replay the thump-thumpa-unnst-unnst of the _Undercroft_ drinks and entertainment Lounge. Yeah, basically a place for adults who never grew out of their rebellious 'goth' phase, thank you internet club directory of Seattle. The drinks, I understood. The entertainment? Lacking. But it had been very much a Lounge. Private 'conversation' booths away from the noise and incriminating disco lights where you pretty much had to find your own entertainment.

I could still feel the fake nails on my ribs, talk about cognitive haywires, but I couldn't very well have bought my _own_ fruity liquor delights now could I?

I was, as they say, 'properly shagged and fashed, o my Droogs'. The couch was a restless hunt for the balance between a comfortable doze and keeping alert, the television's drone crawling under my skin. Water felt like it evaporated as soon as it hit my throat and I woke up to a ringing phone. It had gotten dark.

There was to be a bonfire, and Mike could give me a ride since my house was on the way to La Push. It was to be "Sarah's Party: 2.0" only instead of liquor I could look forward to s'mores and frostbite. And it's not like I had any reason to duck out: as we established before, I'm a very social creature, and Charlie's absence gnawed at me. Renee may have been a flibberty-gibbet, but she was always around whenever I felt the walls of an empty room pressing in too tightly.

So yes. I opted in for a bonfire that I in no way thought I'd actually enjoy because _I missed my mommy_ and daddy wasn't back from work yet. It would not be an evening ill spent, o my duckies, since karma kinda owed me on that whole almost-squished-by-classmate thing.

"Heyyy, what about 'bros before hoes'?" This a comment to when Mike finally pulled up to the dirtside that was supposed to pass as a curb on country roads. Henn practically gloated in shotgun, and I had to squeeze in between two strangers that introduced themselves as Ben and Conner. "Like the brother in Boondock Saints?" queried my best Irish accent. Which was a bad idea, because asking after any sort of popular film in front of excitable peers while you with a hangover was like asking the construction worker to pretend your head was the cinder-block he was being paid to accost.

Too wordsy? OHGODSHUTUPYOUGUYS I'MGOING TODIE. What was the name of the other brother, anyway? Fuck, that was going to bug me the entire night and nobody had internet on their cells, the backwater rubes. I was content to moodily distract myself with the scenery that crowded the road on the fifteen mile drive, trees clustered and arched over the moonlit cement, broken twice by a river that curved around and birthed two rickety bridges harboring any number of trolls or goats or however that Aesopian shit goes.

I rolled the window open (manual lever, ugh, but at least it wasn't child safe and went all the way down, ha) and leaned into the wind, inhaling the salty-fish air. We parked with a lurch and Lee's mom's minivan emptied next to us about the same time. The fresh air was bracing, and not as cold as to warrant the heavy jacket I now had slung over one shoulder.

You already know I hadn't yet been back to La Push, what with a new school to break in and a house to make fit for, like, human habitation. But if the beach was ever as beautiful in the daylight as it was in the murky dark of a Washington evening, I'd definitely visit more often. Don't get me wrong: I remember the cliff-and-forest scene around the mile-long crescent of First Beach as vividly as childhood memories can go, but five years ago the shore hadn't been decorated with a gang of raven-haired copper gods in nineties grunge wearing fierce grins at the intimidated scrawny white kids encroaching on their turf.

Most of the Quileute present were still skinny teens themselves, sure, but they had the airy confidence of the underprivileged and rawboned. Also they were the ones dragging up the heavier pieces of salty driftwood, while the majority of the theater club simpered awkwardly and tried to make introductions. I moseyed to the sitting part of the group and pulled out a cheap undecorated Zippo, flicking it experimentally and toeing bits of wood into place with the only adult on the scene: If Sam Uley didn't recognize me then I wasn't about to introduce myself - hungover and extremely homosexual and in No Fucking Mood to take shit from guys who had honed giving their friends shit into an art.

Also, Sam had always intimidated me in that heart-in-throat way, half wanting his constant attention and always feeling lame and, dare I say, unworthy whenever it was given. O god, now I was having tag-along flashbacks. Yeah I wasn't about to say shit. He was obviously on baby-sitting duty, this being a clash between the townies and the tribe and there a history of scuffles and all.

"Dig the sand out on that side for the air, Burns."

Oh. Okay, maybe it was just manly disregard for useless small talk. Right. Digging. Now that the fraction of opportunist testosterone had arrived, there were more helping hands building up the pit and a rise in laughter and conversation. Mike stumbled in the sand and went down giggling just for the excuse to pull Henn down with him and could they both just go die, please?

Angela refused to meet my eyes, instead turning to reprimand Tyler for his choice in CD. Yes, there was a CD player. With huge D batteries and everything, as if a sound system in a trunk hooked up to an ipod was _such_ an alien concept. I closed my eyes and settled back against the sturdier logs that had been arranged in a lopsided circle, giving up the Zippo when Sam prompted for a light but giving no protest when he pocketed it. A small homage, an offering to the gods of all things hot in worn denim and sleeveless flannel.

Also I didn't really smoke anymore. Turns out that shit makes it hard to breathe, hey.

My eyes closed against the starting crackle of the caught tinder. I knew the flames would be blue and green at first, licking the salt from the dark logs. I knew that, had it been daylight, the cliffs to the north would be every color of rock imaginable, and that the further away you were the more the colors blended into themselves to make that static gray. The sun never got the chance to bleach anything, and there was always wet in the air, so the cliff face could rival the trees in vivacity. The shore pools would be full of life year round, never a drought to threaten them. The gulls would be circling in curiosity, were it morning, never as cheeky as the tourist-fed birds on more popular beaches.

Instead, the darkness stretched over into the water and made me feel small and alone even with the crowd and the fire. The cliffs were an ominous slouching giant and the moon was the flashlight beam of the housewife he was burgling. The tidal pools could have been marble graves, so silent and glossy in the stillness above the reach of the rhythmic waves.

"You know _Axe_ is a waste of money, right?" I open my eyes to regard Jacob Black, who had brought his lady-catching stink right next to me and my hangover, the absolute fuck.

Jacob grins, a flash of white teeth in the firelight. "It's frankincense, and I can't really help it. Dad loves the stuff. Just be glad it isn't Patchouli, like last year's kick." His hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of his neck, revealing a pretty oval face struggling out of its baby fat - heartbreak city, but fifteen is way too young for me. And eying Lauren just over my shoulder, too, don't think I don't notice what you're doing you cad. Jacob grimaces at the memory of the offending incense trends, shrugging in apology and flashing a smile that was too big for the rest of him the way a puppy's feet are too big and silly and awkward.

Sigh. Heartbreak city indeed. Thought I saw the glint of a retainer, too, how cute. "So tell me something, Jake. Why is Billy...?"

Jacob turned to me, brows drawn low over dark brown eyes and high cheekbones suddenly sharp from the frown, and then: "Diabeetus," as if it were an arch enemy, and fuck me, I laughed.

"That was g - oh, you're serious."

That grin again. "Yeah, man. But I was trying to make you laugh, so..." A one-shoulder shrug. "What happened to your mom?"

"_What_? Something happened to Renee?"

"Isn't that why you're here? She didn't die or -? "

"Oh, what? Nooo. Haha, whaaat. No. She remarried." I glared at the fire like it was responsible for whatever rumor prompted _that_ ridiculous theory, digging a trench in the sand with my heel.

"Well. Shit. That's good." But the unspoken question hung just over his shoulder: then what _was_ I doing in Forks?

"Charlie never told your dad why I was moving up here?" But before Jake could answer, someone brought out the hotdogs and s'mores and sodas and I had to leave as the subtle grease of roasting meaty biproduct crept into the air and played grab-ass with the fucking hippie perfume inside my headache. I nabbed a coke on the way out of the warmth and light of the fire, Sam's mindful watch temporarily distracted by a townie who had scuffed her ankle against the sand-rough logs.

"Mind if I come along?" Ah yes, that's right - while I was always tagging after Sam, Jake was always tagging after me. And I DID mind his company, but then again -

I turned on heel, piping up at the nearest collective, "Hey, where's Alice?"

Sam's attention snapped back to me as Sarah answered: "Miss Cullen took ill and could not attend." Sarah sipped her soda with a pinky extended; god I love my friends.

"The Cullens don't come here." Sam didn't take his attention from the ankle of madame damsel in distress, and managed that eerie I-know-everything vibe that had attracted me when I was younger but now was just kinda annoying because I knew he wasn't going to elaborate and I was still too intimidated to even ask him to do so. I popped the coke open and took a hungry gulp - icy and calming and remind me to shake the hand of the man who invented caffeine when I die.

Jake was biting his lip in Sam's direction, hands shoved deep into his jean pockets and frame hunched in an angry shrug. It was so fecking cute I gave him a big ol' noogie, sloshing coke into the sand when he resisted. I was finally pushed off with a scoff and could only coo at his frantic re-arranging of hair and clothing. Was I ever that awkward and endearing at his age? I'm fairly convinced I fox-trotted out of the womb smiling like a show host, but who knows.

I was trying to lick the coke from between my fingers before it dried all sticky and unpleasant, but my sleeve was soaked. I moseyed on down to the water, pulling the sweater over my head and balling up every bit I wanted to keep dry. Shoes came off, pants were rolled up.

"You're not going in that?"

Rather than answer a stupid question: "So where are Rach and Becca? Fuck, this is cold." Sleeve properly rinsed, hands properly scrubbed, and minimal damage to pantlegs. Victory, and hasty retreat with the waves lapping after my heels.

"Rachel is at State and Rebecca married a Samoan surfer. She lives in Hawaii."

"Whaaat? No fair. I wanna live in Hawaii." And fuck a Samoan surfer. Tip-toeing back across the sand to dry feet and hands with the rest of the sweater before re-shodding.

"Hah. Forks driving you crazy already?" Jake hovered on the way back to the fire, but fell back once I entered the circle to drape my sweater over a log to dry and pull my jacket out from under Henn.

"I like the _people,_" Thrown down at Henn like a knife dropped on a frog. "_Sometimes._" She stuck her tongue out at me and didn't deign to waste her breath in defense or whatever. I strode out of the circle and aimlessly out along the shore - maybe a walk would dispel the urge to strangle my friends. Halfway to the looming cliffsides I noticed the footsteps behind me, and the slightly breathless question:

"So... why'd you do that to your face?"

I fell for the Poke, a common trick where you set a hand on someone's shoulder but extend a finger so it squishes into their cheek when they turn to regard you. "Why'd you do that to _your_ face?" Don't tell me. Petulant. Like a bratty kid. Was Alice really sick, or was she scared to go with her friends because the backwoods tribe were some sort of witch-hunters?

Jacob scratched the side of his chin. "Like it? Afraid it doesn't wash out, though. I could spend five years in a basement but I doubt even then it would be nearly as pale as yours."

"Haha, niiice. I wasn't in a basement. I was in Arizona, if you can believe it. And I loved the sun. I _miss_ the sun."

"Is that why you didn't come back?"

"I started going to camp in the summer." A shrug, as effective as it could be in the dim. "Sorry I didn't write, darling."

"Hahaaa, I was just curious, so fuck you."

"Mmhm. Only if you paid me, Jake." Cue manly scuffle and trying desperately to anchor my ill mood against the sudden elation that yes, Jacob Black was still my friend. I wasn't outcast, even though Sam didn't have ten words to give me at a time and Seth Clearwater hadn't spared me a second glance. "Hey. Hey, leggo for a minute, I'm going to spill this fucking pop everywhere, dude, seriously I will spill this all over you if you don't let me upri - " I took a deep breath of freedom, finished off the soda, and shoved the empty can down the back of Jake's sweater.

Jacob twists away like a cat off a tin roof, "Is that smell - are you _drunk_?"

"I _was_. Why are the Cullens on the tribal shitlist?"

Jacob is shaking the can out of his clothes, then bends to pick it from the sand and toss it to my waiting catch. "I don't... look, it's really stupid."

"You don't have to tell _me_ it's stupid. Carlisle is a good man, and it's nobody's business if his kids have some sort of incurable disease or whatever." I was being vague because I didn't know how much was polite to reveal.

"Disease? Really?"

"I think so, yeah. If you've ever been within three feet of a Cullen you'd know what I mean. They're a little bit fragile, sure, but they aren't contagious I don't think."

"Hn. That explains a lot, then. Want to hear my dad's version of the situation?" We were facing James Island, a dark smudge on the horizon. Standing apart despite the cold, and how dare he be taller than me at his age.

"I'm not going to like it, but sure."

"The old man is coyote-bit." The pain and anger in Jake's voice was made all the stronger by the muted darkness of the late winter night. The air between us seemed thin and I didn't glance twice at the flash of teeth that had nothing to do with smiling. "He thinks they're the same family that caused trouble on the reserve years ago. Or that... they're descended from those people or something. I can't think he means the _exact same_ family because that's crazy. I think he might have Alzheimer's or Dementia or something, lost track of time or has flashbacks or - " his voice cracked and he had to pause.

Mercifully, I didn't comment.

"And he's not the only elder who supports the ban, so it's not like he's abusing his position. It wouldn't be so bad if we were allowed into town again, at least. Old turkey thinks we'll fall prey, literally, to the Cullens if we step off 'protected sacred earth'."

The imitation of Billy's deep accent made me grin, despite the news behind it. "Jaaake, is that the _only_ reason you're banned from town?"

Sounding genuinely innocent and puzzled, "Far as I can tell."

"My dad is the Sheriff, you know. I heard about the pot."

"Jesus, that was _clove_."

"I know, but it was sold to Jared Gauld as _El Marijuana_."

"The stupid fuck came up to Quil all like, _asking_ for pot. Like he just _assumed_ that about us."

I snorted. "Don't get your ponytail in a knot. Billy used to toke with Charlie in the back of Grandpa's woodshed."

"Suppose that's why he's so crazy nowadays?"

"Ah, hah. Your dad, or mine?"

"Mine! You know half the tribe drives all the way to the city because they don't want to go to the general hospital since Dr. Cullen started working there? All because of some vague feud that happened sixty years ago! It's batshit." Jake glared moodily out to sea and I resisted the sudden urge to reach over and smack him in the head, just for the excuse to make body contact that wasn't as gay as a hug. I wanted to keep him in my shirt pocket and feed him bits of cereal. Knit him a wee sweater.

"You guys lost?" The voice belonged to a flashlight beam that had been steadily making its way along the beach from the bonfire. "There's no swimming at night."

I shielded my eyes against the assault. "Sam, do you jest? In this weather? No, not swimming. We _did_ find a dead hooker and a crack pipe, though." From behind his own hand shield, Jake looked at me like I'd just invented sarcasm and like it was fucking brilliant. "Could you put that thing away, man, I have a hangover."

The light dropped but Sam's voice was cold. "Let's try and keep everybody in one place tonight." The flashlight beam motioned for us to follow him back to the fire and the music and the pretending to be two different people at once.


	7. SEVEN

**: X :**

_I will interrupt our regularly scheduled program_  
_to warn you: this chapter is dark. Pretty much_  
_the turning point for when the story gets to be_  
_srs bzns and earns its "M" rating._

_NSFW, you must this tall to read, et cetera._

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**: Port Angeles Nightmare Theory

* * *

Another exciting episode of Dear Fucking Diary. This time, Bernardo Charles Swan tries _not_ to sound like a completely spoiled brat. Film at eleven.

Seriously, though, guys? Seriously. That trip Renee promised, for the Christmas holidays? Total fucking disaster. I don't even have anything cute in popular media to compare it to. It has knocked the eloquence out of every fucking insult I could possibly think up.

Just... it was just shitty.

I could go into detail, but I probably shouldn't be complaining. Got to see my mom, we both teared up like giant _girls_, and I mini-raged over the fact that Phil and his daughter were there. Only a little because I mean, come on, it was Christmas. Like dude seriously I'm not about to be _that_ guy. We didn't even end up in Seattle. Renee wanted someplace quieter, with all the shopping but none of the traffic.

This is the story of the great Port Angeles disaster - featuring me, my accomplices Captain Morgan (of the U.S.S. Drowned Sorrows) and his sidekick Jacky D.

Just kidding. I wish I could be all suave and blame my stupidity on The Drink, but come on I was with my _mom_ that entire weekend and Phil was never the Stepdad type what tried too hard to be cool in my eyes, at least not to the point where he'd let me get shitfaced without comment.

No, I was just... arrgh, dammit. I don't even know.

So when Edward asked me what the hell I thought I was doing, for once I had no answer.

* * *

The storefronts of Port Angeles were lightly dusted in frost, the last day of Renee's visit. We had stayed in a single hotel room, cramped together like one big happy family (one big happy _low income_ family, which was pointless and what the fuck, Phil you snore so loooud). I had my shiny new headphones on (Charlie Sr. carried a surprising knowledge about sound systems and gifted me accordingly, along with iPod downloads of stuff he liked in his youth, like the Beatles and Pink Floyd and Freddy Mercury's varied magnificence) - so I couldn't hear Renee and Phil being disgusting at each other, and only pretended to be listening to Macy's prattle about how _pretty_ everything was. I would buy that child a _godamn thesaurus_ for next Christmas because fuck's sake, no third-grader I ever knew was this dumb.

Blah blah kid's today bah humbug blah.

I was trying to Not Think. There were a lot of thoughts to avoid, but I'll only highlight the most pressing in an itemized list: Edward and the Cullens, Sam Uley's unsmiling face, Renee's distraction with her new family, The Sheriff alone on Christmas. Was it the Holiday Blues? Probably. I missed Arizona, and I also missed the cozy undecorated room at my dad's place, and being forced to let one go for the other, well… Yeah, no, yeah. I missed my mom, even though she was right there in front of me, smiling tightly when she realized the music she was hearing had been coming from my headphones and could I turn that down please I'll be deaf by the time I'm _her_ age and -

I really couldn't wait for the evening; for the tearful farewells and the good wishes and the brief hour of freedom I'd have roaming the airport before I hailed a cab and hauled luggage back to Charlie's pad. I was not going to waste that window of freedom making awkward conversation with my stepfamily while my mother acted like a total stranger. A dweeby, maternally paranoid total stranger. (Don't even ask me to explain a gay man's relationship with his mother, mkay, 'cos I can't even.)

And after three hours of shopping (wrapping presents is for _unbroken_ homes) and gift-swapping and politely pretending to be overjoyed at the starched collars of a 'more professional' wardrobe - that hour of freedom was mine. The farewells weren't tearful so much as terse and formal, and I'm pretty sure Macy got snot on my coat and it's pretty fortunate I'm gay because kids are fucking gross and I will never be spawning any tiny mucous factories of my own, ever. _You're welcome._

I promised the maternal figure I'd e-mail her, and call her regularly, but the rift between us that had started with one spectacular fight nearly half a year ago had only been deepened by this visit.

My luggage was still at the hotel, and the walk back shouldn't have taken more than fifteen minutes. I waited anxiously in the chilly atrium of the airport, then dialed Renee's cell to tell her I got into the cab safely (to lie, basically, because I was actually going to fuck around town a bit before heading home). She didn't answer. Not like Renee would care enough to try and check up on me, since everyone I ever got into trouble with was miles away in another state, forgetting about me. Maybe she couldn't hear her phone ringing over the constant string of Phil's fucking gooey endearments. I contemplated violence against my phone, thought better of it, shoved it into my pocket and shrugged my jacket closer to my neck before strolling outta that place like I had somewhere important to go and every way of getting there.

* * *

Port Angeles was lit up in common festive form, but the light was oppressive - weighed down and isolated by the sharp wet chill of winter. Not the bug-filled orange glow of Phoenix's inner-city streetlamps, but the still white beacons of northern tourist-town shopfronts.

Okay, so it was a stupid move, walking alone in the dark down unfamiliar streets. All kindsa wierdos out after dark, like that guy, there in that car with the Texas license plate. Probably too drunk to drive, passed out in the front seat (because I mean, come on, why else would you nap in your car). But when I approach to confirm this incredulity and maybe pull a solid Samaritan before he froze to death, the guy looks sharply up. He's older, but hot in that George Clooney, Russell Crowe, David bowie kinda way. I am not coy about my appraisal, and strut down the sidewalk with hands in jean pockets, smirking.

The dark green bottle of wine is perched right there on the dash, man, that ain't even subtle. On second thought, I could do with a bit of that for warming up, and am not above blackmailing a drunk driver for pity-liquors. But as I turn to get back to the car, I see it's followed me, engine so quiet and smooth and I can fucking _see_ the heat roiling out as the window is lowered. I can read the way the guy leans half-out and waves me over, doesn't even have to say anything, just looks at me with that hang-dog expression and fuck fuck _fuck_ this is exactly what I need and I am not even being sarcastic about that.

So the dumbfuck walking alone in the middle of the night climbs into the passenger seat of the recently divorced stockbroker or lawyer or what-the-fuck-ever he was to have a car like that and no ring on that finger. "How much?" His voice is blurred but deep, and I look forward to hearing it in the morning, in the hotel room, when it is sharpened by hangover and regret.

"Dude," I laugh, "the rest of that bottle will do me just fine."

The driver waits until I'm settled into the passenger seat with the door closed eagerly behind myself before passing the lightened bottle over, politely letting me get as duh-_runk_ as possible as fast as possible (anesthetic for first date jitters, y'know). By the time the care is nosed into an alley in an empty industrial part of the city (slowly eating up road while I find the best radio station that won't leave us grinding to Christmas jingles because fucking christ that would be just too horrible and hilarious) - but _by the time_ we find that alley, bright winter streetlight illuminating the injured glint of his eyes I am in his fucking lap oh fucking god he smells expensive and shit, _shit_ it's warm in that car and we both taste like bad holiday wine I am not even going to fucking bother with a blowjob this dude's too drunk to get off more than once and I was _not_ gonna waste it -

With the sudden lurch of the drunk and disorganized we wrestle ourselves to the back seat, and oh my fuck this dude is heavy, the dead weight of the barely awake, but I don't fukken care because he's got my pants undone oh fucking shit _yes_ we are scuffing his nice upholstery something fierce, kicking around and scrambling and bucking and oh man he is uncut I can fukkin _feel_ - hnnng. It's not the old in-and-out, but it'll do. And he moves his hands up to my shoulders and it'll more than _do_, that slow massage - damp sour breaths batting away at cheeks and eyelashes and sexy bits of thick gray hair falling into sleepy half-lidded bruises. Rough thumbs working closer up towards my neck and okay so he's choking me a little and a flash of panic is swamped by the idea that I'm man enough to handle a little S'n'M. It's no big deal, if I don't like it then I just don't get off. Maybe rob him if it gets too far and okay yeah now I can't breathe, and try to tell him so, and there's no way I'm gonna rob this dude because he is wide awake now, face twisted into an ugly grimace.

I'm kicking, oh jesus worst way to die - oh fuck, somebody - no… And the punch line? I came. A flutter of relief like a moth in the flame, maybe he'd stop now, but he doesn't, a building pressure between my ears like drowning. The thunderclap of the doctor's large hand on your newborn ass, the world rocked up into a cacophony of breaking fiberglass and trickled into the blaring repetition of the car's alarm. Cold air rakes up from the open door, clawing across my thighs and dick and stomach and rushing into my lungs and there is nobody atop me and the door is slammed shut and I lay there, listening intently to the progressively more urgent alarm and my own breath while trying to insert my hearing in between everything to find out what the fuck just happened.

It's cold, so I tug my jeans up over the mess of my thighs and button them over a shaking stomach, sitting gingerly up. The glare of another car's headlights cloud my vision and all I can see is my own breath, with a proper amount of delirious relief. Someone opens the door and curtly hauls me backwards, slamming the door shut before balling his fists in my jacket front. It is Edward Cullen, like something out of a dream involving graduation and underwear.

"What _the hell_ do you think you were doing?"

And, as admitted previously, I had absolutely no answer. I laughed, stifling it behind a numb hand, eyes wide. Edward barely manages not to shake me around like a furious dog with a chew toy, but I can tell he wants to. I don't exactly protest when he manhandles me to his car, which was proper fucked in the front but still drivable.

I could have said something like 'we have got to stop meeting like this' but seriously, the whole event was just one big 'THE FUCK?' As in, the fuck was Cullen even doing there? The fuck was _wrong_ with That Drunk Texan? The fuck _was_ I thinking?

The injured Volvo was already swung around and gliding toward the more populated areas of the city with Edward's voice an angry balm, a muzzied blanket of sound and unobtrusive words. He quieted to a stony silence and I wished immediately I'd been paying better attention because squirming under the idea that Edward Cullen had probably seen me full-frontal after the scariest sex I had ever had was just... words cannot describe. Streetlamps and bright blinking Christmas decorations washed over my vision in a blur while Edward lectured about late nights and big cities and not about fucking for cash or feeling so alone that you'd rather risk it with a perfect stranger than spend one more night untouched.

It was in front of a restaurant that Edward put a hand on my shoulder, a brusque half-shake. I blinked, leaned away, pawed at the seatbelt I hadn't noticed had been fastened around me. He leaned over to help and, well, I hit him. Just drew back and cracked him one right on the jaw, regretting it immediately not because it was an embarrassing panicky reflex but because I think I broke my fist against his titanium fuckin' face, the stupid robot.

Sucked a curse in between my teeth, shook the injured hand and then laughed. Laughed until I couldn't stop, until it hurt my ribs and throat. I thought I'd puke any minute but instead I felt... high. Airy. Head against the dash because I had doubled over to accommodate the hysterics, I could probably just close my eyes and wake up in the hotel room. Please. Yes? No?

Okay, fuck you god or to whomever this shitty holiday belongs.

"You should eat something." It wasn't advice, it was a command. When I didn't answer, he huffed impatiently and opened his door with deliberation, one foot out. "You're probably in shock. You need sugar in your system."

"What?" I blinked, feeling stoned but calmer. "Uh, yeah. Okay. Wallet's back at the hotel."

"I'll buy." It was the angriest dinner proposal I had ever heard - then the driver seat was empty, and the passenger door was opened and I was steered through the front of the restaurant to the restrooms without a second glance from the waitstaff. Normally I'd hate getting pushed around like that, but Edward fucking Cullen was being all weird and close and touchy and this threw me. Maybe it was compassion, fuck, I dunno. I got just one glance at the mirror and the drops of blood on my face and shirtfront before Edward grabbed my jaw and started scrubbing with a bit of damp paper towel.

Wait. What? He made his way down my neck and I fought him over it, a brief pushing struggle. I just had to see this - had to get the evidence that I wasn't going mad, that the blood wasn't my own. The mirror was very clean and very clear and very well lit; clearly that _was_ blood spotted along the paper figure wearing my face.

"I'm sorry." His voice was so soft as to be nigh un-fucking-recognizable. I honestly didn't know if he was apologizing for the blood stains on my shirt, or just for the situation as a whole. Wasn't exactly sober.

I _was_ pretty sure neither of us were going to get any service in such a high-end black tie establishment. The hostess took one look at ol' Eddie Cull, though, and seated us personally. She even re-located us at Edward's request, to a quieter corner where I could eliminate a plate of mushroom-stuffed ravioli and like, five cokes. Halfway through the wordless meal, I started to shiver uncontrollably. Must have been the cokes - I was insanely thirsty and Edward kept ordering more each time the too-attentive waitress came around.

A coat dropped over the bulk of my jacket, something tan and made of real wool and smelling expensive enough to make me uneasy. But still, it was a ... gesture. Significant? Dare I say, cute? I smiled for the first time in what felt like weeks, grateful for the silly distraction of something like imaginary romantic gallantry. "So, am I out of shock yet?"

Flat green eyes flick up to mine. "The color's back in your cheeks." (I wonder why, hur hurr.) He slides the basket of breadsticks my way. "Do you feel dizzy, sick or cold?"

"I feel drunk and full. Pretty sure I'll crash once the adrenaline wears off, y'know."

"Done something like this before?"

My laugh is as harsh as the scrape of the chair as I push away from the table - ready to escape should he feel the need to play psychiatrist. "Not exactly that fiasco back there, but yes. Problem?" My arms are squared over my plate, leaning forward with a glare.

He seems surprised, but calmly replaces a toppled glass. "I meant - I didn't mean _that_." Inhales, leaning back, the epitome of recovered cool. "This is more complicated than I had planned..." He blows the hair out of his eyes in such a boyish gesture that I'm having trouble staying all grr-fear-me.

"You _made plans..._ involving me?" I straighten up to cross my arms, Edward's coat loose over my shoulders like a heavy cape, bunching awkwardly against the back of the chair. Not exactly a _bad_ thing, staring Edward Cullen down. It's easier to be prickly and curt than to admit that I wished he'd given me more than a coat; that the constant foot and a half of space he put between us was killing me.

"I wasn't following you." He blurted unexpectedly. "But I caught your scent and was curious what you'd be doing here, and then I was curious about your family and then - " A waved hand. "I was going to offer you a ride, but I couldn't even guess at what you were up to. I wanted to know, so I followed you then, yes. I lost you at the red light on Maple and 24th. It was late, so I searched. There weren't as many people in the streets, and it's so hard to find you because you're - " He shook his head, smiling warily, actually looking at me like I was a person and not a mysterious species of insect on the bottom of his shoe. "Different."

I was processing all this, slowly. It was some kind of vital confession, I was sure, but also sounded a whole lot like KUH-RAZY fukken babble. My 'scent'? He wasn't one of those spiritual retards with the soul of a dragon or cat or what shit?

"Well. Uh, yeah..." (FUCK YOU, I'M A DRAGON, trying not to laugh, haha, shutUP brain you are so weird under duress.) Palms flat on the table, I cleared my throat, surveyed the carnage of the demolished ravioli and the crystalline ice in empty glass tumblers. "I think the next step would be to go to the Police." I squirmed in place, hating the idea of Mr. Crazytown taking me in to file an assault charge and explaining that I'd been cruising for sex while suffering the half-assed investigation and oh god what if my dad heard about it -

"That'd be pointless." Edward waved a long pale hand, prompted further only by my blank stare. "The man is dead." He didn't meet my eyes and I sensed a half-truth, curious myself just how deep the rabbit hole went in ol' Eddy Cull's brain.

"Uh-huh. And how is that?"

He seemed honestly surprised I was asking, and very matter-of-factly stated: "I killed him, Bernardo. I used the ice pick in his trunk to haul him off of - out of the vehicle and he died of trauma to the spine a few moments later."

"Oh." My throat was dry and I had to piss. "Why did he have an ice pick in his - ?"

"Why do you think?" His chuckle was dark and velvety and my libido shot one offended glare at me and scampered away before I could bother it further with such nonsense. After an awkward pause, Edward matched my posture and leaned forward. "Bernardo, I can't tell what you're thinking. I can hear thoughts to an extent... it's like skimming algae off a pond while still unable to catch the fish underneath, see. But I need you - " He cleared his throat, voice uneven. "I need you to tell me what's on your mind. Not all the time, just - " A huff. "Just right now."

I shrugged both coats off. "Yeah all right. Gotta take a leak first, and then we'll get to the bottom of this." I left my jacket there for insurance, hoped to all holy hell he understood my need to be alone just then, and GOT THE FUCK OUT as soon as the waitress was between his line of sight and the door. It was a chilly cab ride to the hotel, the room's sterile lavatory too bright and silent. My bladder emptied into the toilet in little fits and starts, too scared to even piss properly.

* * *

Technically, I was already checked out of the hotel. I paid the cabbie but didn't even think about continuing the room rental, understandably distracted. I sank down on the nearest bed just as the cleaners opened the door and greeted me with surprise and reprimand. No, I'm not some retarded kid who got lost. Yes, I am aware continued use of the room will cost extra. Yes, I'm leaving, and I can carry my own bags. No, I'm not hurt, this is just from a pen that exploded in my face. One of those festive red-inked souvenirs shaped like candy canes.

Wondered if the cab was still out front, or if I'd have to wave down/call up another. Shit, I was tired. Couldn't stop shaking, couldn't calm my pulse. Was I still in shock? Set the suitcase down to lean into a streetlamp, fingers on my wrist, breathing moisture against the cold metal. What I mistook for a cab turned out to be, you guessed it, a silver car with its front end half-fucked. Edward opened the door from inside, turning forward with no further invitation.

There were two paths I could have taken - the most likely scenario included a family of serial killers, police and probably psychiatrists. A whole mess of hearsay and way too much effort to convince everyone I wasn't just making a spectacle for the attention, which I hear is a common problem in teenagers who wear a lot of black and get themselves pierced; fuck my fashion sense and its dubious credibility!

The other path was to sit down, shutup, and pretend nothing happened. It involved a warm car interior and a free ride home, and hopefully nothing else. Small chance for death or dismemberment, but I doubted that after having saved my neck twice that Edward would up and kill me, even to keep me silent. Although... stalkers don't exactly have a great record of benign attentions.

Too late. Luggage in the back, sinking my tired ass into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed with great effort, attending the seatbelt before Edward laid a goddamn egg. "The way I see it," I explained, for my own edification as well as anyone's. "Without you I'd already be dead twice. Died horrifically, at that. So an hour's delay longer before you hatchet or ice-pick me or whatever is no big deal, really. Fuck, is it cold in here?"

"I don't want you dead." He dials the heat up and shifts the car into a lurching speed, punctuating his agitation. It's not good, agitating the homicidal highschooler at the wheel. I repress the snark, and go for the flattery instead. Did that work on Buffalo Bill...?

"Well, that's a start. I don't want you dead either. Uh." What did Mr. Harvings say to do in psych class, again? Keep them talking, ask a lot of questions? Is the car going too fast for me to fling myself to safety? "So why were you following me? I mean - " Edward glances sharply from the road. "Not following me. Um. Why were you in Port Angeles? Christmas shopping?" Hoping to all hell that my voice was genial enough and not the kind of interrogating tone psychos think is accusing.

"I _was_ following you." He admits gently, reaching to turn the heat down so we can hear each other better. I try not to edge away. "I just wanted to know what made you different, why _you_ out of everyone - everyone in the world for all I know!" His laugh is a bit desperate and he leaves the thought unfinished in the warming air between us.

"Mmhm. And how long have you been able to read minds?"

"I don't read them, not on purpose. I can't focus on a given person and force their thoughts out, it's more like everyone talking all at the same time, always."

Oh, woooow. Schizophrenic. Nice.

He shrugs, flipping through a sleeve of CDs pulled up from the armrest between us. At this point it'd be best to die quickly in a car crash, so I don't protest. "The polite thing would be to try and shut them out, but I can't. Carlisle helped me learn how to suppress it, to make everything a whisper. But then there's you." I wanted to jump in and change the subject, fearing a rage fit that might pull us into a tree going 80 - holy fuckstockings does he drive like this all the time? "And I thought you were just quieter than others, or that maybe you were one of us and simply being polite. But you're well alive, and totally silent."

"Hah, maybe I'm just a lot dumber than everyone you've met? Nothing going on upstairs but a musical stuck on loop?" We share a small laugh and I'm feeling significantly less endangered, even to the point that drowsiness pounces. "And one of _who_, exactly? Does your family read minds and shit too?" I stifled a yawn and sniffed, rubbing the end of my nose.

Edward reaches back and I grab the wheel on reflex. He's annoyed by our proximity and shoves the jackets into my lap, clamping both hands firmly on the wheel again. "I'm not going to crash us, Bernardo." Ooooh, 'us'... 'Bernardo'. Come back here libido, I'm not being that outrageous. Death and sex are common themes in theater, so I don't need no excuses nohow. "And yes, my family has their own talents. I'm - I have to keep them in consideration, about how much I'd be risking for all of us, telling you the things I'm telling you now. It is remarkably difficult to trust someone who is as closed off as you."

"Oh." I nodded, worried and showing it. "Well, I'm not doing it on purpose, whatever it is that's, uh, blocking you or whatever."

"You're off _everyone's_ radar, Bernardo, not just mine. The fact that you actually pay attention to details including food on our plates, the state of health we appear to be in, that's not normal! A normal gaze would just slide right over these details and never give it a second thought, _because that's the way we orchestrate it_." He's not angry, but he's in the excitable condition that can quickly lead to anger. Poor me, actually starting to believe to what he was alluding. I mean, tally it all up Charlie Brown! Physical swiftness, ability to blend in despite being so glaringly unique, locating an individual in a city of thousands just in time to stone-cold murder a murderer...

He doesn't wait for me to inquire further, surreptitiously glancing my way every now and again and probably catching on to my skepticism. "We're dead, my family and I. Or, undead, rather." A sigh like 'O, Tedium'! "There's no delicate way of putting this. I drink blood from the deli and I don't sleep. Sometimes we go hunting for fresh stock, but it's not easy covering the slaughter of anything bigger than a deer and it's no use telling Emmet that bears have no natural predators - "

"Woah, woah, wait. Stop the crazytrain. You're a fucking vampire?" My hands are in the time-out "T", which could also double as a makeshift cross, just in case. He had been explaining this all with a reluctance one might hear from a kid with asthma explaining his dependence on an inhaler.

He grimaces, and come to think of it maybe those canine teeth are a little sharper than I had ever thought to notice. "Well, we certainly aren't zombies. Nor robots." Noooo, don't give me that roguish half-smile, you bastard. Why are all the pretty ones crazy?

"You know what? That's okay." My voice cracks, mirroring my overtaxed emotional and mental state. "I'm fine with that. I thought the Platypus was totally made up, like the Chimera or El Chupacabra. Then I saw one at the San Diego zoo, alive right there in front of me. I mean, I was eight, sure." I shrugged the coats over myself, feeling around for the seat's lever and tugging the seatbelt out so I could curl up, dirty shoes on nice leather upholstery be damned. I was in babble mode, apparently. "But who's to say the world isn't larger than what we initially perceive? Finding new species of fish every fuckin' day." A nervous hiccough, like a laugh, the heat working its fingers along my sore back (I might have pulled something while fighting off Mr. Strangler). Lights flashed by, the cars we were passing threw their complaints after us in muted horn blasts.

The silence that followed only worried me when I woke up and realized that hours had passed and that we were stopped. Edward was perched on the hood of the car, the undamaged side, one knee pulled up and looking totally at ease with being coatless in temperatures below thirty, not including wind chill. I climb out cautiously, biting my cheek against the loss of warmth and pulling both coats on.

We were parked at a scenic stop, picnic benches and a lone rusty grill beside metal wastebins; a snow-dusted payphone stood far from everything else like a dutiful sentry, flanked by bright yellow cement pillars. "I want to show you something." Edward had to yell a little; the wind was hastily tossing loose snow around our ankles and off the edge of the overlook.

"Is it a Chupacabra?" My stomach had fluttered a bit at the way he turned to beckon me closer. His legs seemed longer, stretched out in front of him as they were, clad in dark bootcut jeans. I briefly wondered if he was going to toss me off the cliff, but he didn't move, eyes narrowed toward the graying horizon.

"I never wanted to get you involved," he continued on some invisible thread of thought.

"You could have just let me die. You fucked with fate, boyo." I sat closer than necessary, you know... to block the wind. Heehee.

"I defied fate the first day I met you."

It took a minute for that implication to sink in, then I was glad it had been brought up. "Oh! You mean with all the glaring. Yeah, what was up with that? No weapons handy, didn't want to leave bite marks and blow your cover?" That guess seemed to hit home, but he shook his head, hands shoved in pockets, a muscle in his jaw flickering.

"I'll tell you later, maybe. I think you might, ah, misconstrue the meaning."

I laughed. "Well, you got me there. Pretty sure I'd have climbed into your van at that point whether you had candy or not."

He quirked an eyebrow at me, oh sexy incredulity. "That's the point I'm trying to make, here. We're naturally constructed to attract prey, and it'd just be _safer_ for you, for the both of us, if you'd at least try to fight it."

I leaned in. "Like disappearing from a restaurant after learning you offed a guy? I won't climb into your metaphorical van so long as you stop driving it around my metaphorical street corner."

He tensed, voice tight. "Maybe you need to stop frequenting street corners. Maybe you need a metaphorical house and a metaphorical hobby. One that doesn't involve throwing your life away like yesterday's newspaper. _Metaphorically speaking._"

"Jeeze! Wow! Thanks, _dad_. And for your information, I'm not drawn to Alice the way I'm - and I mean I've _spent way more time_ in Alice's company. Never wanted to climb into _her_ van." I mutter, the wind stilling just when I needed its noise the most to cover this whole idiotic conversation. The air is violating every minuscule gap between the threads in my clothing, oh the sad song of the southerner who dons pre-faded jeans. "So don't fucking start telling me that I'm some, what, some helpless dumb human being, all strung along by your vampiric wiles or what the fuck ever."

"If you aren't just some dumb mortal, why did you get in the car?"

"Why did you offer your car in the first place?" I'm dancing around the real issue - I don't want to use the 'v' word and I sure as hell don't want to keep talking like I'm expected to just, what, swallow this situation without protest?

"I already told you. I don't want you dead, and I'm curious why you, of all people, can... I don't know... are immune, or - I asked you first." Was that a chink in the armor, or was I just being hopeful? The sun was beginning to peek through the horizon; there would be a brief moment of rays ducking between the cloud-cover and the earth to illuminate the scene. I was honestly curious if Edward would burst into flames and wouldn't have minded spontaneous combustion for myself at that point.

"Well, there you go. I'm curious, and if there's a stronger word for curious then I'm that, too. Like, who the hell _wouldn't_ want to investigate a totally mythical being suddenly proven real? Took like, three years for my fascination with the platypus to dim." I was being sarcastic about this, completely unconvinced in the face of every scrap of vampire lore my generation had been exposed to. I nudged him with an elbow, and he rocked gently sideways, a ghost of a smile flickering out as the crisp winter sun flooded the scene.

Suddenly Edward Cullen was dead. A waxy-skinned, sunken-eyed corpse, with milky pupils and sharp bones. Those unlovely gray veins stood out in stark contrast all through his face and neck, and he pulled his hands out as if to demonstrate that he was still perfectly mobile and alert - the veins were threaded over near-skeletal fingers tipped by blackened nails. I had left the car, the rail of the overlook biting cold against the back of my knees. I was being rude. I didn't care. I stared.

He smiled and I almost stumbled over the edge, and then I was face-to-face with that startling set of chompers as he caught my elbow to keep me upright. "I don't mean to laugh." Ohgodstoptalking your breath smells like the mouse we found under the kitchen drain - "But this is the first time you've been completely silent in my company. It would do to scare you more often."

Oh, fuck that. Did I run in fear of the mighty platypus, even though it had poison barbs on its hind flippers and smelled like fish? Fuck no. He flinches when I reach up to test the pliability of his cheek, and am satisfied that it is still skin, however cold and dry, whereas I am warm and probably have sufficiently clammy hands, all things considered. "Jesus man, you're freezing." I right my posture and pull away, shrugging his coat off and wrapping it around his shoulders.

"I can't feel the cold."

"That is the saddest fucking thing I have ever heard. Put the damn coat on, it makes me cold just looking at you." He complies, and I start fastening the top buttons just for an excuse not to look into those clouded, colorless eyes.

"Bernardo." His hands snake up and close over mine, gathering all the fingers into loose fists. "It's better if you don't stand so close all the time." Bad leafs, like those that filled the cabin of the ambulance. And mushrooms, and as the wind tugs the coat, fresh earth and damp logs. No wet dog or moldy floor mop, and I got used to the overall dead-mouse-in-a-drain as it was broken down into an assortment of things. But I don't think he was talking about the smell.

Resigned from further comment, I drifted back to the car. Ducked in stiffly, Edward already keying the ignition and cranking the heat, there then here with a swiftness I hadn't entirely paid attention to all evening. It would take a minute for the engine to warm and the fan to start giving hot air, though I wasn't sure why he was waiting. Expected some reaction? Giving me time to digest the situation? Maybe didn't want anyone passing on the highway to see him, and fuck me, all the days he and his siblings had missed in school had been clear, partially sunny... and oh my god, the blood typing lab.

I press forward, familiar with navigating front seats comfortably and quickly, popping open the buttons of his coat and pressing an ear to his chest before he could register a complaint. Instead, he falls back with an 'oof' and a reprimand. When he stopped talking, there was a stillness, a frightening tranquility where there should have been the murmur of a pulse, the gurgle of an empty stomach, the ebbing rasp of a breath.

"You're dead." Like, welcome to earth Charlie Brown. Things without pulse usually are. "You died." And that thought seriously bummed me the fuck out. I am tired, and cold, and my brain is on a short fucking fuse after all the waltzing with shock and trauma. I wipe my eyes against his sweater, pinching them tightly shut to wring out any lingering tears, but there were just more in wait. I'm going to pull away but fingers catch the back of my neck. The decay is slowly leaving the air, and I am all too ready to switch from fear to arousal (this being such a common theme FUCK MY LIFE). I force out a laugh, wiggle an arm between us to scrub my face with my jacket sleeve. "You definitely _smell_ dead."

Taking this in stride - I mean seriously, he never bats an eyelash at some of the worst - just the stupidest - must have come from years of hearing the unvoiced commentary of everyone with whom he ever shared a room. Finally, a man impervious to my verbal jack-assery! Anyway, he took the comment like a champ, and even returned fire. "You smell like the sun when it touches the earth. Particularly the heat off a brick sidewalk, and dry grass."

I couldn't meet his eyes if I wanted to, since I'm stuck at chin-level. Nowhere to press but forward, but then again, _mushrooms and various dead things that belong in the ground_. I suspect that he's just trying to scare me again, maybe make it clear that it's not really such a great idea to jump into the lap of a bloodsucking predator, even though, okay, like, I'm not IN HIS LAP, I'm just draped half over it. Chill the fuck out, this isn't EVEN a proposition to blow you while you drive, jeeze man. Tsch. Pfft. Other scoffing noises. "Wait, did you just tell me I smell like sunshine?" I cannot control the slightly manic giggle.

"Behind the usual chemical array that is, shampoo, soap, salt - " Holee shit, he just pulled the breath from my mouth with his own, and it wasn't even in a gay way, but still. " - ravioli and coke," Still... and now oh fuck me running sweet jesus his nose is against mine, I would probably keel over from stroke before anything _mundane_ like serial killers or b-movie villains could get me, and my headstone would read: He just couldn't fucking believe any of it. " - red wine and tobacco." Edward's hand slides up into my hair. The fact that he is _not_ kissing me is made worse by his proximity, so I try to catch him on the withdraw all sly and totally not pathetic and shutup. "I don't want to be a monster." He whispers against my half-open mouth, effectively aborting the foetal romantic mood.

I shift, leaning an elbow into the automatic locks button and jumping when every lock clunks loudly into place. "So don't be." I settle back into my seat feeling very passive about the whole situation. Probably would have regretted the taste of whatever could smell so repugnant in the first damn place, wow I am just o-for-ten on this whole fucking 'common sense' thing.

"We try. But sometimes we make mistakes."

"Like ice-pick dude?"

"Like lingering in an enclosed space with someone whose scent makes the hunger the worst it's been in decades."

"... Oh." My voice is tight and airy. "I applaud your remarkable self-control." Wow, way to make me feel like a dick just for _smelling good_. Edward starts the car, and I am distracted by the skip of the yellow lines of the highway and the steady thrum of the engine. "Sorry about, uh, all of that - you should have told me, first thing. Fuck."

Edward laughs, and I am happy to remark he is looking less dead. "Haven't bitten you yet, but I'm glad it's finally starting to sink in. Not exactly pleasant for me, facing down the sun."

"Yeah - hey, aren't you supposed to be a pile of ash or something?"

He's shaking his head, and licks his lips before answering. I felt a significance now in every little motion, because the core of him was so still, it must have taken some effort to muster all those social cues, even to take in a breath before speaking. "We don't pull the essence from human beings, so we're weaker than most of our kind. But also less, ah, handicapped in some ways, if that's the word for it." A shrug, and I recognized the road we turned onto with disappointment. "Living on animals, even when fresh, it's a lot like, say, you trying to survive on nothing but carrots. Not impossible, but difficult. And without flavor."

I laughed. "Fukken _vegan_ vampires. Sheesh." Glancing sheepishly to Edward the same time he's checking on me, our matching expressions of relief. "Was it hard, the first day?"

A sigh. "Yes. Luckily you seemed like you hated me plenty by the end."

"I mean, the first day you vowed yourself off humans or however that goes."

"No, actually. I remember that _night_ very clearly. I wanted to kill people and suddenly I didn't, even bad people. Every life has meaning, Bernardo."

"Unless you're a sexual predator from out of town."

"That was different." He snapped. Ah, hello again bipolar Eddy! I had wondered where you wandered off to. Knuckles tight on the steering wheel and everything, you carry your tension in your hands, yes you do, yes you doooo you wittle angwy wubkins. "That was an accident." He sniffed. "I lost my temper."

"Uh-huh. Is that temper of yours because you're a redhead, or a closet case?" I threw my hands up as defense against the glare. "You always want to know what I'm thinking, and I'm just obliging that, dude."

"Bernardo, I am trying to have a serious discussion with you."

"Mmyes, well, I am just a mere mortal who needs to sleep and eat and perform various bodily functions I'm sure you've forgotten about... how many years ago...?"

"Not _too_ many." Oh ho ho, is that a spark of vanity I saw there? Hahaha, gaaaay. "Get some sleep, if your father will let you." He turns into the Chief's soggy driveway and I groan. "He's upset you didn't call, and can't even fathom what could have kept you in the city all night."

"So I should make up an excuse that doesn't involve license plates from Texas and, well, anything to do with you?"

"Preferably. I'll see you tomorrow." He wasn't going to help me with my luggage and I didn't blame him, but as I leaned into the warm cavity of the car for the second bag, he called out softly "Bernardo?"

"Yeah babe?"

He grins open-mouthed, shaking his head, then blinks and sobers, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. "Promise me something." He's staring out at the muddy yard and who-knows-what beyond.

"Yes."

"Don't go into the woods alone."

After a silence, I shake myself. "Okay. Not exactly the lumberjack type, so we don't have to worry about that."

"Just, there are more dangerous things out there, that aren't me. Let's leave it at that."

Arrgh, you don't get to have the last word, especially when it's so fucking cryptic and ominous. "All right, but you have to promise me something, too." I crawl all the way into the back so I can look over his shoulder, one elbow on each front seat.

"I don't exactly trust your sense of - "

"No, seriously. Promise me... promise me you won't go into any shopping malls alone. There are gayer things out there that aren't me, and let's leave it at that." I lightly kiss the tip of his ear. He doesn't smell like dead things and he doesn't shirk away. The luggage is weightless as I cart it up to the porch, telltale car already slinking out of view.

"Bernardo?" Chief sounds pissed. Luggage suddenly heavy, smile... fading... "Renee wasn't late for her plane, was she?"

"Oh, ah, yeah, we were both kinda scatter-brained this weekend. It's okay, they had an opening." I kicked the door shut behind me and waddled the bags upstairs, then stood in the shower until the hot water ran out. Charlie made cocoa and we sat in our manly bachelor sweats shooting the breeze about how crazy and scatter-brained Renee was or had been, and funny stories therein.

The phone rang.

Charlie answered, rolled his eyes, handed the receiver to me. Renee wished me a happy Christmas and asked me if I had any trouble getting back, because the news just reported a body that had been found last night in an alley not far from our hotel.


	8. EIGHT

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT**: Whispering Shout

* * *

I'm the type to wake himself up reciting algebraic formulas if I'm sweating a math test, so fuck yeah I'm going to sleep badly after all the shit that happened in the city. The brain is a weird and stupid thing, though, and instead of heavy drunk stranglers or flash-dead classmates, I dreamt about Charlie Sr.'s _lawn_. Secret fear of shrubbery, or is 'back yard' a metaphor for something?

When I woke up I recalled that yes, Edward had warned against walking alone in the woods, but I had filed it in the back of my mind as some idiotic assumption that I'd douse myself in cougar piss and go spear-hunting. Catching the tail ends of a dream already fading, I pulled a pillow over my face and thought about the folks down at LaPush, trying to recall whose smiling face had haunted my sleep.

Bah. Fucking vague nightmares, leaving that aftertaste of fear through the rest of the morning. Though it wasn't like I didn't have a metric fuck-tonne of other things to worry about - DNA evidence left at a murder scene, for starters. And okay, yeah, I was a stupid fucking kid and wandered off a lot so Charlie got my fingerprints in the system in case someone ever thought it worth the trouble to kidnap me. Prints that, in their maturity, now covered a car door handle, a radio dial, and a bottle of wine.

I'll just let that one sink in, dear readers.

Go ahead and take a minute to process that while I go make some coffee and hunt the bottom of my wardrobe for stale cigarettes. I lock my door and open my bedroom window, leaning out into the cold stillness to blow the smoke well away from the house. The sill is a bit narrow, but I fold a blanket over the edge and have myself a sit, one knee pulled up against my chest. Getting too old to perch on windowsills. Too old and fat, leg going numb as the edge cut into my ass. I suppose like Edward, I couldn't really feel the cold.

Speaking of whom, I'd have to dial up Carlisle to ask for his cell number, so we could maybe possibly sort out this whole wanted-for-murder thing before it had a chance to ruin any future prospect of gainful employment. The Seven Eleven is incredibly strict on its zero-felonies policy. Heart in my throat (because Carlisle is still a sexy fukken dude, and that shit makes me nervous ON TOP OF everything else that is going on; plus how weird _is_ it to be bothering him for his son's number...?) I flipped through the contacts list.

I retraced the list, frowning over the screen. Me and this cellphone had been together since I was a freshman; I had pulled a lot of strings with Renee to convince her to give it back to me. It was bulky and scuffed, it didn't have a texting keyboard, and the screen was cracked half across from years of back-pocket abuse. It was certainly something I wouldn't have let anyone fuck around with. Edward Cullen's name was already in the contact list, with a number I assumed was his own cell and an e-mail address in the little e-mail address slot that I never fill out for anyone, ever.

How was I supposed to feel about that? He touched my fucking phone, but he also gave me his number! But he did so secretly, probably while I was sleeping, which was, okay, kinda cute maybe but also kinda, fuck, I dunno... I pressed dial, to yell at him directly. The ring sounded from two different directions, the stronger noise from the phone's receiver while the fainter echo -

An old oak, the only tree that sat close to the house, had been trimmed last fall; branches that had once been perfect for late-night escapes taken down for fear of damage to the siding or power lines or whatever. I followed the gnarled scars all the way to the wide base, where Edward Cullen was leaning, calm-as-you-please. I froze in place, cigarette tumbling down the side of the house and extinguishing itself in a lump of melting snow.

I don't know what was the greater fucking upset, the fact that he was _there_ or the fact that he wasn't saying anything. Not even so much as a 'good morning' or a request to come in. He did answer his phone, though, and I had a hard time not dropping my own in the scramble to get it back to my ear. "You absolute shit."

"Eloquent as always, Bernardo."

"Get your ass to the door, we got things to discuss."

As soon as I left the window he was through it, pulling his jacket off without further invitation. It was like we were trying to out-bastard each other, but then he takes one look at me and turns to the closet, trading his jacket on a hanger for an old university hoodie of Charlie Senior's.

"If you go so far as to try and pull that thing over my head, _I will fucking bite you._"

He switches the grip on the sweater and hands it to me instead.

"Know your way around my closet, much?" I am trying to be less angry, because I kinda need him to clear my name in a court of law sometime in the foreseeable future.

His gaze flickers away from me. "It's a perfectly logical place to find a sweater, Bernardo. Your lips were turning blue." He crosses the room to close the window, either to punctuate his concern or to avoid my scrutiny.

"Oh, hey! you know what else is blue? Probably the body of that guy you killed!"

He is both startled and puzzled, I think, but really that expression could mean anything from _just-sat-on-a-tack_ to _just-found-out-he's-pregnant_. "Why would you even bring that up?"

BERNARDO AM ANGRY AND DON'T AFRAID OF YOU. I am impatient with his clueless response, and his middle-amurican whitebread reflex to just Not Discuss Unpleasant Things. "Fucking _kidding me_? My fingerprints are in the system, Edward! And even if they weren't, what if somebody had _seen_ me with the guy, or I had left something behind?"

"Like these?" Seriously, what is with this guy's hard-on for dangling keys in front of me? I'm neither cat nor toddler, godammit. I swallow, sink to my bed. Wish I had more cigarettes. Shit - Charlie had left the front door unlocked the morning of my return, so I hadn't even noticed their absence until it would have been way too late. Edward tosses the keys onto my desk, and it's my turn to be startled when he sits on the edge of the mattress. "You don't have to worry about that; I already told you. I have been covering up deaths for quite a while now and I can promise you they aren't even _looking_ for the car."

The air seemed to have leaked right out of my lungs, along with the anger. I didn't feel relief, though that probably would have been the most appropriate. Instead I felt the same curiosity that had burned my eyebrows clean off at the age of eleven (trying to use bugspray as a starter fluid for a campfire). I had a lot more to lose than facial hair this time around.

I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. "Why aren't they looking for the car, Edward?" Tugged the sweater on, dug my feet under the tangled ball of blankets, snagged a pillow to set across my lap and hide the nacho stain on the right thigh of my ratty sweats (and the morning half-chub, because I am so Glam it's like, a crime.)

"I removed it to a safer location, and will dispose of it accordingly."

"And when did you do all that? Whatever time you could spare _after_ finding my keys but _before_ taking my phone out of my back pocket while I slept?" Okay, yeah, I understood he not only saved my life but also covered my ass. I was willing to let a few social_ faux-pas_ slide for that, sure. Also, hee, Edward Cullen on my bed.

But then he amped my irritation by ignoring the question completely. "You don't believe me. I can show you, if it will help you sleep better."

"How did you know this shit's affecting my sleep?"

"Are you always this paranoid in the morning? It was a figure of speech, Bernardo. Get dressed." He gets up, unlocks the bedroom door, and steps out. "Charlie's already gone for the day, so you might as well come with me."

"Are you always gonna fucking tell me to do stuff I already planned to do, or is this your way of making up for not being able to read my mind?" I stumble out of the bed, pushing the door shut before stripping quickly. It is a frantic search for suitable clothing - what to wear on an impromptu murder-cover-up?

"Was that a rhetorical question?" Edward's voice faded as he descended the stairs, footsteps noiseless.

* * *

"Wait, so, did you jump to the window ala Clark Kent, or climb the house? Still having trouble picturing it." I'm ruffling my hair dry with the towel as I descend the stairs. After-shower chill 'cos haha it's winter. How weird is winter, guys? Pretty damn weird. Not as weird as a vegan vampire in my kitchen, handing me coffee that I had only made to keep myself busy and hadn't actually planned on drinking.

He even put cream and sugar in it, oh my god. I stare down at the mug, then up at Edward's back, and slide into a kitchen chair.

"It was a jump, and I caught the sill to assist."

"You would be fucking ace at free-running, I bet." I sip the coffee to be polite. Blargh, quickly, where is the cookies-for-breakfast shit? I confess that my sense of taste had been injured by cigarettes and was now coming back with a vengeance, crippling my manly ability to palette nigh-inedible foods. Edward's silence could either be disagreement or confusion. Siiiigh. "It's a sport where you bounce around your neighborhood and leap fences and run up walls and shit."

"I know what free-running is."

Awkward pause. He is filing away last night's strainer of clean dishes, an act both adorably domestic and disturbing. I mean, how does he know where everything goes? _I_ don't even know where everything is placed, and I fucking live here. Maybe he's just making it up as he goes along, and Charlie is going to come home to -gasp- coffee mugs where the bowls should be. KITCHEN ANARCHY.

What was I about to ask, again? Something about vampirism, probably. Maybe I did need coffee. The mug could distract me from picturing how good Edward would look in one of those nifty bartender aprons, which is pretty fucking good if that clingy gray v-neck sweater is any precursor to how hard he can rock the working-class look. If I haven't told you by now, the dude is FIT. I wanna ask him if he goes to the gym, but that is way too 'seedy bar pickup line', and what kinda bench press would a vampire have to do to see any improvement, anyway? His brother fucking _eats bears_.

"Have you already broken fast?"

"What?" I grin, because that could have been taken down sooo many bad roads.

"Breakfast. Breaking fast. The fast you submit yourself to when sleeping, and break in the morning. You know, by eating."

I really can't tell if he's being rude or honestly thinks I don't know what 'breakfast' means. But it's cute when he gets all bitchy and wordsy on me, so no argument. I make a show of shooing him away from the cupboards to take down a bowl, turning to find he's already plucked the box of cereal from its cupboard without having to check any others.

I sit.

The milk is on the table.

If I left the box in front of me long enough, would he _actually_ pour it? And oh, hey, there's a spoon there now. Is this assistance, or impatience? Is he operating by smell, and what exactly do spoons smell like compared to other dining ware? "How do you know where everything is?"

"I... inspected the house."

"What! I mean, dude, I was kinda getting that vibe, but like, what the everloving hell._ Why?_"

He sits opposite me, hands folded on the table. "If you met someone who defied everything you'd come to know about the world and how it worked, wouldn't you want to investigate?"

Now I _know_ he's fucking with me. I laugh. "Fair enough. But how did you get in?"

"Spare key under the fake rock - and before you start, that is also just an obvious guess."

"Yeah, uh, luckily this is the house of the Chief of police. So, you know. Sorry it wasn't more of a challenge. Hey, don't you have to be _invited_?"

"Should I also lack a reflection, and turn into a bat?"

"Right, so you're a, what, a _scientifically viable_ creature of the night? At least explain the no-sleeping thing, because you could sure do without that emo raccoon look you all seem to be going for." I shovel in a large bite of cereal, pretending that the bowl takes up more of my attention than the immortal in my kitchen. Hehe, can't get over it...

"We hibernate. Long stretches of wakefulness, long stretches of sleep. Technically, when we sleep we are dead. Unresponsive, anatomically and medically dead. It's a vulnerable state, so," a shrug, "you can understand that it's a complicated lifecycle."

"Yeah, I bet. So if a cycle of twenty-four hours for us is like twenty-four years for you, does that mean that you actually might age? Just, you know, too slowly for it to register?"

"The cycle stretches over far more than twenty-four years, but... actually, I've wondered that myself. I've met a few of Carlisle's patrons, and there is definitely a difference between a near thousand-year-old immortal and someone ten-years-dead."

"Patrons, as in...?" Please stop summoning dirty hooker thoughts about Carlisle, kthnx brain.

Another shrug. "Supportive elders. All the political and religious miasma woven into vampire mythology? More true than I'd like it to be." He sneers, tapping the table. "I don't have a soul, Bernardo, but I'm still expected to vote and fight in wars."

"Like, what, the civil war? When France routed England? When Rome conquered Britannia?"

"Not even." Ahahah, politics bring out the teen in everyone, I guess. "Family wars. Territory feuds. It's not nearly as savage as it used to be, but there are also fewer vampires. Only a matter of time before it gets bad again, because that's the one truth you learn when you have to live forever: history repeats itself, unmercifully."

"God, you're hot when you lecture."

I could frame the look he's giving me, and title it 'What is my mother doing to that dog?'.

"Aha, did I say that out loud? I mean yes, hrm, blah blah philosophical remark blah. I take it you don't like being a vampire, so I think 'how's that working for his self-image?' and respond accordingly. So damn _gloomy_, shit."

"If you're going to joke, we can have this discussion later." Am I bad person for absolutely loving it when he's all butthurt like that? He doesn't exactly pout, because that wouldn't fit his whole cooler-than-James (Dean, you tards) image. But he is a professional grade-A sulker. Ooohoohoo, glower at me harder, baby.

"I wasn't joking." Shaking my head, standing up to wash the bowl. "You are an attractive young... old... being. No joke. Promise."

"Do you not grasp the concept of blood-sucking monster?"

"Don't get your pretty pink panties in a twist, Cullen. If you haven't noticed, I _like_ doing dangerous stupid shit. Hanging out with you is like, fuck, I dunno, a daily dose of idiocy instead of one big stupidity binge."

Edward is half-turned in his seat, like a pensive author in a woodcut, though his eyes are wide. "If you already know what you're doing is stupid, why do you do it?"

"HAHAHA! Wow." I lean back against the table and tap my chin to contemplate the bold naivete of the question. "No, that's valid, I'll give you that. Let's see... well, why do you drink animal blood, even though you know it's bad for you?"

He scowls. "It's not bad for us. It's just not as beneficial." He stands to help clear the table, taking over the task of washing the dishes while I stow away the foodstuffs.

"And lingering in your company isn't bad for me. It's just not as _beneficial_ as being with, ah, an average person."

"That - you've got the values mixed up."

"I'm not exactly grasping at straws, though. It's in your nature to go vegan and be all, what, _vampiric lite_. It's in _my_ nature to indulge self-destructive habits."

"Self-destructive...?"

"Fuck's sake, it's not like I cut. Get over it."

"Your life matters."

"Oh fucking christ, are we still talking about this? You wanna know something else about my life? I can do whatever I choose with it. Fucking deal." I realize I sound like every angry teen star in the history of all made-for-tv-movies ever, but seriously. This whole soul-jesus-monster-atheism battle is _old_ and I am already done with it.

Edward lets a dish fall back into the sink with a clatter, wrenching the tap closed before turning to me, hip against the counter and towel wrung between fingers before he tosses it aside, please let his next move be to throw me on the table and get with the fucking already. "You matter."

Disappointment. "Thank you. You're not a monster."

His smile is less than promising. "We're about to dismantle and burn evidence of a murder, and I'm _not_ a monster? Are you being facetious, or just plain shallow?"

I wince, leading the way out of the kitchen. "Caught me there. I'm shallow, you narked out your entire family. Let's be friends!"

"You would have come to that conclusion, or something similar, eventually."

"Well, I'm glad you're willing to give me some credit." Jacket slung over the arm of the couch, I sit to tie my bootlaces.

"They'd have never found your body."

"A little hot and cold this morning, aren't we? First my life matters, and now it can't stand up in the face of, what, blowing the cover of a family of supernatural beings? Give me some more of that credit you were so generous with just now - nobody would have believed me, and I wouldn't even have tried to convince them. Still won't, unless I wanna meet the guys in the white coats. Or apparently die."

"No, I mean, if that man had - if you had died in that car. Your father would have searched for the rest of his life, thinking it was his fault, wondering why you disappeared, if maybe secretly you were safe and happy and just didn't want to call, or - "

"_The fuck_?" I stand, wanting to scrape that self-important calm from his stupid marbline face. I snatch my jacket up instead, strangling the fabric.

"I didn't risk my family by intervening. I saved yours."

"Yeah? Okay. Thanks. Could you just... not spring shit on me like that?" By the time I've unclamped my fingers from the jacket and pulled it on, Edward is close. It bothers me, the way he hovers without touching. But that's a whole 'nother can of emotional worms I want to keep nailed shut and buried.

"Why did you do it, Bernardo?"

I turn my face down, exhaling with a shudder. One-track minds, these gloomy fucks.

"Why did you get in his car?"

I grasp his shirtfront, kneading the soft fabric. Open my mouth like I'm going to say something, just so he'll lean in to try and hear me better. I can't really hide the grin, though, our faces parrying in the small distance, my smile getting wider the more he avoids the kiss. "I just wanted to get laid!" I crow, releasing his shirtfront. I'd apologize for the harsh theatrics, but yanno. It's just my fucking manic nature, you see.

* * *

When Edward said he had 'moved the car to a safer location' or whatever, I thought he meant he drove it to a different alley and would have it towed, or had sold it to a chopshop or something. No, he had actually _moved_ the car, like, picked it up and carried it at some point, probably as soon as his path traded road for wilderness.

Using my excellent powers of deduction, see, I noted there were no track marks in the mud of the thick Washington forest, and no way to get a car between some of the trees without turning it on its side. Though I had assumed one thing wrong: Edward hadn't moved the car all on his onesies; Emmet was leaning against the sleek champagne paintjob with his arms crossed when we arrived.

The damaged back of the car was the only distinguishable feature; the license plate had been removed. Pretty amazing how different things look in the daylight, how 'new and expensive' can so easily be turned into 'broken and questionable'.

"What's Swan doing here?" (Using last names is manly, unless there is a ballet about birds on a lake with the same title, 'cos then you're boned.) Thankfully, he seemed genuinely puzzled, so my dirty jailbaiting ways remained covert.

"He doesn't believe me. Thought we could demonstrate."

The cloud of anger I spot passing Emmet's chiseled brow is brief: he turns away from us and rips the car door off like the cardboard proof-of-purchase from a box of macaroni. I can only hope that's him venting. Something tells me there is tension between the brothers, adopted though they may be. I can't really place it, watching from a good shrapnel-safe distance as they peel the car apart in sheets of fiberglass and metal. Probably has nothing to do with me, or my sudden involvement in the affairs of the immortal and highly secretive Cullen/Hale Alliance.

Facepalm times a million, u gais.

The scene that progresses is pretty fucking cool, and quite a few times I feel like the light is tricking my eyes - is that really a car, or some prop made of foam and plaster? But then Edward would toss a sizable piece of engine and it'd sink halfway into the soft earth, or Emmet would grind a shatter-proof window into dust too heavy to be stirred by the wind. They are both fairly industrious and methodical, but it definitely looks like work and takes the better half of the day.

I'm hungry and a bit cold, but fuck, not complaining. Feeling pretty useless, actually, since this is being done more or less for my benefit and I can't do anything but watch mutely from the driest log. They seemed to be talking but I was too far away to eavesdrop, though I had a healthy guess of their conversation because Emmet's violence against the car grew less methodical and more like the kind of dick-waving one would expect from a football player (social snobbery, me? nooo).

I would have approached and, you know, faced his anger like a man, but I mean, _car shrapnel_. From two individuals not exactly famed for their calm temperament. It's not cowardice if one dude eats bears, is all I'm saying. Also, if you've never heard the sounds a car makes when it's being peeled apart like a banana, think of a live whale. Then think of the whale being peeled apart like a banana - except a car obviously has the crash-and-shatter of glass, a melodious trickle down the metal frame when Emmet shakes himself like a wet dog to clear the debris from his clothing.

Sometime waaay after noon I slowly approach the devastation, if only to complain about measly mortal needs like taking a leak without the danger of frostbite or filling my empty stomach. I could not tell that what was before me had once been a car. Then again, I'm not an FBI agent. Edward, adorably covered in grease and various other inner-car grimes, is chipper. Maybe destruction of complicated machinery is his morning cup of coffee.

Emmet was still frosty (AHAHA get it? it's winter) but turns to me, speaking quietly while Edward starts to dig a pit with the axle frame twenty paces away. "How exactly did you get involved?"

I'm not really sure how to answer this, since I don't know if he's talking about the car, the murder, or his family. I start at the most vague. "Well, Edward killed a man. And then told me so, because I asked. I thought he was a robot, but that's only slightly less crazier than vampire."

This answer does not please the Greek God of pigskin-tossing, apparently. I add hopefully: "I would have figured it out anyway." (Lies.) "I didn't exactly ask to be involved." (Also lies, sort of. I didn't ask, but I DID want. That totally doesn't count.) He's still not saying anything, and I honestly can't come up with any rib-nudging bro-bonding conversation, especially when Edward lights the tires on godamn fire, rejoining us with a satisfied grin.

Emmet leaves to add the seats and leather/felt lining to the blaze, one great donkey-punch to the ozone rising up in an oily billow.


	9. NINE

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER NINE:** Why was Six afraid of Seven? Because Seven ate Nine.

* * *

By the time school restarted, all the snow in Forks had melted into fog and mud. Post-holiday sluggishness had me scrambling for a decent breakfast, since the Sheriff had already left by the time I managed to crawl out of bed. Who was fukken ready to oogle himself some vampires? This guy, right here. Okay, so the Cullens were probably the Beaver Cleavers as far as horror mythology ran, but hey. Certainly made for a more entertaining social life, and had me thinking maybe spending the rest of my education in this shit-hole town wouldn't be so bad after all.

Was that too harsh? Maybe Renee's visit had brought up memories of sunnier climes and a more diversified course selection, not that I had a real problem with anyone in the school so far. (You know, out of THE ENTIRE JUNIOR CLASS, a whopping fifty people.) Couldn't really pin down Edward just yet, figuratively and literally, har har. But I think we really bonded, you know, over the murder theft 'n arson thing.

Clifford stood out like a big red blur in the thick fog - and surprise-surprise ladies and gents, he even came with his own rugged countryman accessory, leaning in front of the dent Tyler's van had left weeks ago. Okay so it was just Edward in a blue plaid button-down, but if vampires could grow facial hair (CAN'T THEY?) I'm sure he'd have gone for the BraunyMan 'stache.

"Baby lumberjack." I greet him with a grin.

He rolls those gorgeous glaring greens skyward. "We are trying to blend in, you know."

"No more _haute couture_? Tragedy!"

His smile was going to make us late. "Do you want a ride to school this morning?"

"Uh, got a ride. It's behind you."

"The gas mileage on this thing is terrible, and we both know it."

Heehee, 'we'. Us. Knowing something, as in, you know, two people, together. We. Hehehe. Cough. "Fair enough. But in a contest of collision, the big red truck wins."

He eyes the dent.

"That doesn't fucking count; I wasn't even behind the wheel." See Burns flirt. Flirt, Burns, flirt.

Edward rubs the back of his neck and follows me around Clifford's front. "Look, visibility is awful today and I don't exactly trust your reflexes. Or your vehicle."

"Okay, you can hate on my puny human handicaps, but never insult a man's truck." I throw my backpack into the truckbed with a laugh and, after a few tugs, wrench the door open. Wet shards of ice scatter from the cracks, a cold drip down my collar as I bravely traverse into the stale air of a cabin that hadn't seen use all through the holidays. Door closed, dear god I hope the engine doesn't crack when I - That is, if I can find the damn... Where the hell - ? FUCK A DUCK- "CULLEN." I am mad enough to slam the door with satisfying noise (the beast is all metal). "Fucking _keys_, fucking what did you - fucking _pickpocket me_?" It is all I can do to try and sound less angry chinese grandmother and more indignant peer. I stomp up to grab the edge of the driver's side window as it coasts down. "You absolute douchenozzle."

"It's for your own good."

"Fuck you." I lean into the escaping warmth to glare, shoulders squared. "Fork 'em over. Now."

"Would it really be that difficult to accept help every now and again?"

"Would it really be that difficult to stop treating me like a retarded child? Man the fuck up and admit that you want to drive me to school because you LIKE me. Is that so hard? Is that so fucking impossible to conceive? Really? Fog and gas mileage, really? Don't start acting like a dumbfuck on me now, babe. Don't even _start_." I purse my lips and shake my head like one of those dashboard bobble-ornaments, pushing away from the window so I could resist the urge to RAGEQUIT, THROWCAR, GOBACKTOBED.

Edward is looking straight ahead, face tight and mouth stretched back. I eventually fall still, ready to do this all day if we have to. He half-smiles, tracking the movement of something I can't see in the misty beyond of the Sheriff's property. "Okay." He starts out slowly, and _what_ the fuck did I _tell him_ about the retarded toddler treatment, again? "It would be my honor to escort you to school this morning, Bernardo." Better. Still kinda patronizing, but better.

"Need my keys to lock my truck." I catch them one-handed, cool as a fucking cucumber. Nobody can say I never compromise, and it's not like I was demanding he shut the fuck up and get on my dick already, since such previous offers had only been rewarded with prim bafflement.

Also, okay, yeah I owed him a lot. If it made him feel any better to hold my hand and look both ways before we crossed the street, fine. I drew the line at cutting my vegetables for me, but only just.

* * *

The drive to school took the fucking cake for most awkward twenty minutes of the new year, right up there with the drive from Port Angeles and come to think of it, Edward's car is like, the WORST place for us to have our little heart-to-hearts, with such a long standing history of foot-in-mouth epidemic therein. But there is nothing good on the radio and I'm feeling a little uneasy the more I think about meeting the rest of the Cullen/Hale Alliance anew.

"Your siblings kinda pissed you ditched them?"

Edward's expression twitches out of place, so maybe I've surprised him. "No. Why?"

"Don't you usually all ride together?"

"I'd be riding alone today regardless. We're pretty much breaking all of the rules at this point."

"Oh, all right then. Rules. What rules?"

"To keep ourselves inconspicuous. I allowed myself to get involved with you on the pretense that I am going to hell regardless. Rosalie is countering that sentiment by being a showy brat." He was easing into the parking space nearest a sizable crowd gathered around something smooth and red and - holy MarilynMonroe, Batman, it's an import! We exit the car and I catch a flash of wavy blonde hair and icy blue eyes in the center of the crowd. Edward is next to me, arms crossed, disapproval obvious. "The last thing we need to be is ostentatious. I tell one person about our family, and Rosie throws a tantrum until she's allowed to take her own liberties."

"That's really cute, you calling her 'Rosie'."

Edward shrugs himself out of whatever thought he'd just gotten lost in, and hands me my backpack with a watered-down smile. We have a moment, there in the parking lot, just an early morning pause to reevaluate each other.

I shrug my backpack on. "It's just, you know. A genuine sibling argument. 'S cute. Oh hey there's Eric." I'm walking briskly away because the whole 'going to hell anyway' comment might have sorta been an assent be a filthy sodomite with me and my heart couldn't handle that kinda strain so early in the day. Mike joins us under the wide courtyard overhang and, god bless the boy, passes me a cigarette. It's menthol but I'm not in the mood to give anyone shit, watching the undead siblings emerge from the awestruck crowd unruffled. Alice waves once I catch her eye, but it's subdued compared to her usual cheer and I don't make a move away from my hombres to chat her up.

"I will see you at lunch." Edward passes and ugh, you can just tell he wants to reach over and snatch the cigarette right out of my mouth and half of me wants him to and the other half would just fucking die on the spot, like _jesus christ_ cut the apron strings man.

I blow a cloud of smoke after his back and return the rest of the cigarette to Mike because menthol what.

"So, the fuck is up with you and Edward Cullen?" Eric's suspicion is well founded; Edward's type of crowd and our type of crowd didn't mingle, at least not peaceably.

"My truck broke down and our dads are kinda buddies so he was forced to offer me a ride." I clap one arm around Eric's shoulder and the other around Mike's, one seriously lopsided set of crutches to carry me into the school, but Mike has to fuck off and hunt down Henn or something and Eric isn't exactly a cuddle sort of guy so the operation falls apart pretty fast, dissolving into a shoving match that upsets a small crowd of freshmen blocking the hall to English Lit.

What, I can front. You're surprised? Forget abaht it.

"Dude, Mike Mike Mike, Mike, dude. Hey." I punch Short Blonde 'N Spiky merrily in the back of the shoulder. "Didja get that holiday paper done? Take mine up with yours, hey?"

"Yeah, all right." He gives me a sort of very Mature very Annoyed look, haha oooh I know who lost his cherry sometime over the New Year and was wearing his big boy panties now, yes I doooo. I would get the details from Henn later, and genuinely looked forward to hearing about the development in their relationship. Fuck me, I couldn't wipe the smile from my face... I'd be shitting rainbows by the end of the day.

Mike spent the remainder of class pretending to be Too Cool for Fools, which was a bit of a bummer but I figured I could still win him back with hard info from Jennifer about Them As An Item or at least how big she thought his dick was or something. Eric hit him in the head with a paper football and he didn't even return fire; what the fuck.

And then Government passed, learning learning, history history, definitely not sketching pairs of flat, lightless eyes in the margins of my notes, nope. Totally paying attention. AND THEN THERE WAS TRIG, AND LO, A HENNIFER LOPEZ WAS THERE and she-

She was the gloomiest baby chula I ever did see. When I approached, she snapped out: "Distract me. Say something funny."

"I uh... Hi?" I hug her with some trepidation. Ours is a friendly hostility.

"Aiy, that was not distracting or funny."

I panicked. "Um. I have a big stupid crush on Edward Cullen? It's pretty gay, you might want to hear about it."

She burst out laughing and then that laughter turned into tears; when the bell rang she excused herself to the office. So uh, that was that. Lunch was going to be awwwkward. BUT WAIT NO IT WASN'T BECAUSE I WOULD BE SITTING WITH ~EDWARD~

* * *

A tiny permed latino culprit strong-armed me across the hallway intersection on the way to lunch, fully recovered after having spent the entirety of Trig and Spanish fixing her smeared mascara or otherwise recovering. "You. Need to tell me everything. Now." She was putting up a brave front, and oh holy mother of god I wanted to be able to flip out about this with someone else, if even just a little.

Edward could wait a few minutes; it'd be good for him. "Okay." I'm trying not to shoot molten liquid joy out of every pore as I start, since it's obvious she wasn't having the greatest luck with her own romantic endeavors. "He drove me to school this morning. Actually went out of his way and invited me just for shits and giggles."

Henn's mouth was open in a small question, perfectly plucked eyebrows arched up.

I laughed, giddy, undeterred. "Hey, give me some credit here. You're the one who pointed out he never dates anyone." I bumped my hip against hers and we started toward the lunchroom arm-in-arm.

"Well yeah, but he's not-" Her eyes got big, comprehension dawning. "Or IS he?"

"I really don't know. I really don't care."

"Well you two been on like a date or what?"

"Yes! Actually. Yeah, sorta. Well, no."

"Uh huh."

"Hennifer your skepticism hurts me and I do not appreciate it."

"You got to the first kiss?"

"Almost!" I crow, fist raised in defiance to the water-pocked ceiling tiles.

"You got any solid evidence to convince me you're not just bullshitting?"

I slowed her up as we neared the cafeteria. "It's a little complicated. We talked about some pretty heavy stuff and I just - I never said he fukken likes me _back_, did I?"

"What kind of heavy stuff?" Henn lowered her voice and we stopped up against a row of lockers, heads almost together.

I sigh, translating the past week creatively. "Like our families and shit. He wanted to know about Renee and we talked about his, um, situation with his adoptive parents, and some other stuff." I really meant to ask him about that, actually. "We met up in Port Angeles." _He followed me_ to Port Angeles. "Had dinner. It was nice." Murder and theft, you know, a real take-home-to-ma kinda guy.

"So you're dating, sort of?"

"_Tch_, no. I mean, I wish - god, _you_ know the boy is _sexyfine_, and he's that good type of smart and-" and can hear thoughts. Which means he could have 'heard' everything I just said, if I were to believe that added bit of absolute fuckery. See, it's one thing to be vulgar on purpose and know you deserve a smack for it, but another entirely to be overheard squealing like a groupie. I felt the heat of a blush spread from my neck to my forehead, what the fuck. I'm not exactly a Disney Princess when it comes to my love for the cock, so the blushy-giggle thing needed to stop. I tamped it down, replaced it with moody introspection. "And I guess it's just not really like that, between us. Probably won't be, obviously." Voice weak, appetite dwindling.

Henn shifted, glare softening in the kinship of the broken-hearted. (Or at least the sexually disappointed, AMIRITE?) "The Cullens are out of everyone's reach, don't sweat it _mijo_." She squeezed my arm, and we spent a quiet moment further avoiding the cafeteria before my tiny beautiful fierce friend slapped me on the chest (ow) and offered to buy us both a chocolate dessert. Which was a gamble, really, because you never knew what the lunchlady was offering on what day, and frankly I preferred a brownie over a pudding.

I was saved from the overcooked skin of the stovetop pudding and its slimy aftertaste when Mike confronted us at the end of the serving line, looking all the world like a kicked puppy as he asked Henn if they could sit together. Alone. Without me. (Was that a jealous glare I doth espy, oh khaki knight?)

"We don't have to meet out in no-man's land, you know. You can sit with the theater group." I slide into place across from Edward. It's an obnoxious farce, the sit-alone-looking-friendless thing. He could be the most popular guy in our grade, if not the entire school, and the fact that he wasn't only reminded me of his distaste of mortal company. Us puny meatbags and our inability to drive in inclement weather.

"I like speaking with you uninterrupted."

"You talk, I eat." A fair command, since I'd spent way too much time commiserating with Henn out in the hallway and only had fifteen minutes to scarf down my food.

"Actually I have some questions."

I cringe at his tone, square my elbows over the tray and keep the dry turkey sandwich in front of my mouth like a shield, chewing slowly.

"You have to understand - _I'm_ the one responsible if our family's secret gets out. We've had some trouble with it in the past, when our kind wasn't yet trivialized by Hollywood. Or glorified, rather."

I mumble around another bite, "You don't trust me?" Chase the lump of rye bread stuck to the roof of my mouth with a swig of cola.

"I'm... reasonably apprehensive."

I stifle a belch, drop the sandwich and dust my fingers together to dislodge crumbs. "Have I said anything I shouldn't?"

You could see the smile edging into his eyes, mouth pulled down in a frown to hide it. "No... What exactly is the 'good type' of smart?"

"Aw, jeeze." I push the food tray between us, knowing I would get no further with the butterflies in my stomach.

Edward takes my apple, shines it on his sleeve, and offers it forward. "Your friends care about you. I'm not asking - " He searches the tabletop for answers, like reading the flecked plastic could make this any easier. "I mean to say that you can tell them whatever will make the most sense, but one thing you and Jennifer discussed bothered me."

I chugged the soda, eyes watering from carbonation burn and a brief icy headache. "You know, eavesdroppers never hear what they really want to." I coughed out, replacing the bottle's cap and staring pointedly toward the clock on the far wall. I grab the apple and take a loud, bracing bite. It's mealy and juiceless.

"You really think I'm above you somehow?" It wasn't what I had feared he'd say, but still pretty irritating.

"Oh, come on." I turn to the side, one leg over the bench, nudging the tray closer to myself in preparation to leave. "Every single one of your siblings keep a cool distance from the crowds of muddy peasants who worship them - with the exception of Alice, but even she dropped theater club like a lead brick after you intervened with the van thing." I get up to toss the tray, and Edward follows me, hovering to keep our voices low.

The bell rings and we are two stones on the bank of a river, caught up against a wall with a poster promoting drug resistance.

"I'm not an idiot; this whole sudden interest in my personal affairs has nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with the fact that you can't read my mind. It bothers you, and you want to investigate it. And that's fine, man." It's not fine, it's not fine and I feel kinda ill just admitting it out loud. "Just don't be surprised if other people find the cover story of 'friendship' a little suspect." I force a grin. "Your crowd is posh, my crowd is mosh, and nary the twain shall meet."

Edward is leaning with his arms crossed loosely at his waist, focus riveted. "You're not wrong, and I could stand to make a few more friends if I'm to truly blend in." The softness of his voice clashes with the noise of the dissipating crowd. "But after about the thirtieth funeral of a distinguished classmate, one learns to disconnect."

"That's... that makes a lot of sense, but hold on." Change of topic because fucking THANKS, ED. "You mean to tell me you all run around being highschoolers all the fucking time?"

Edward laughs sharply, and we share the momentary agony of _that_ idea. "No, not constantly. Just sometimes it's easier to pretend to be a normal family, to pick up where our lives left off. It gets harder to do every time, but we keep trying." He shrugs. "This was probably the last go-around for me. I'm technically Carlisle's oldest, and therefore the most jaded." Sexy fucking grin, god dammit. "I apologize if that comes off as arrogance. You're worth ten of me. A hundred."

"Oh, well... _what_?" I'm grinning stupidly, even through my confused scrutiny.

A janitor pushes a wide broom past us, looking straight ahead as if we aren't even there. Edward refocuses, tucking his arms tighter against his stomach. "Your life is a hundred times more... _more_. It's fragile and... and unique."

Oh. Religiobabble. Perfect. "Be still, my throbbing ego! Why don't you just admit that I'm charming and handsome?" I flutter my eyelids and slide a few inches closer, shoulder smoothing a wrinkle in the poster against which we leaned. I had meant it as a joke, not as incentive for Edward to seriously contemplate my lightly stubbled, heavily pierced visage. A sudden weight in the air cements my nerves.

"Well, I'd say more like - " His eyes settle back to mine for a breath-stopping second. Okay, I'm no Jake Gyllenhaal, but I'm not exactly Mickey Rooney either. To those who don't watch nearly enough film: I'd fuck me. And Edward, Edward right now? Looking warm to the idea himself. Luke warm. Room temperature, _at least_. "Well, you're..." Yeah, good luck finding a polite adjective for 'reasonably fuckable'. "... going to be late for class." He pulls away from the wall and I gather the pieces of my shattered brain to follow him to Biology.

* * *

We couldn't have been more obvious sneaking into the classroom than if we'd brought fanfare and trumpets; the lights were off and Banner had dragged up one of those giant television-on-metal-wheely-frame things that I have never seen used outside of the public educational system. As we flooded the room with hallway light every set of eyes snapped up to us, some staring longer than others, and Banner mumbled about talking to us after class but otherwise just held a finger to his lips and pointed us to our lab table. Apparently it was a crucial scene in the fruitfly genetics debate.

Edward sat his usual foot-and-a-half away, though knowing it was more or less for my own benefit softened the blow. The darkness of the classroom made the space feel smaller, every person nearer and every paper rustle louder. I squinted toward the blackboard. We had to take notes. Fuck.

_You were either about to mildly compliment or seriously insult me back there._

I don't bother folding the note; it's hard enough seeing the paper in front of my face so there was little fucking chance of anyone reading it from a distant table. It takes a minute for Edward to move his pencil from his own notebook to the sheet between us, and he scooches his stool a little closer to accommodate. MY PLAN WAS WORKING PERFECTLY. Just a little closer and I might be able to cough on him and prevent aliens from taking over the world.

_you're not unattractive. the undead as a whole don't pursue romance for its visceral reproductive acts._

I stifle a laugh, and almost can't even watch the paper as I write:  
_Neither do homosexuals. _:)_  
_

He scoffs, and I am feigning intense interest in the movie so Banner doesn't pull the plug on this our most juvenile of communication efforts. He doesn't make a move to respond, though, so I lean across to try again:

_Do vampires pursue romance at all?_

He's quick to answer:  
_yes. obsessively_

Which is, you know, either wayhot or woahscary. Both. It's both. Hng.

_Explain pls._

_later_

_Esplain naow pls._

It's gotten to the point where Edward has tired of moving back and forth and is now sitting mere inches away from me. I need the paper closer because I can't see it very well in the bad lighting, and that's my story and I'm sticking to it. Why not just move the paper back and forth, you ask? Shutup you are obviously terrible at this game.

_can't compare it to mortal love, which is largely chemical. vampires don't reproduce so sexual attraction is based on a number of things, like nostalgia or sentiment. romance is an entirely different category, and love has absolutely nothing to do with either._

The small paragraph scrawls across the lined sheet clinically, chopped up like doctor's shorthand. Either he was being scientific for my benefit or really hadn't ever -

_You're a Virgin!_

With a capital 'V' and underlined twice because hooooly shit.

Edward regards me coldly out of the side of his vision, and I meet that with a triumphant grin. Were he a lesser queer, he'd call me a bitch or scribble down a crude drawing involving me and a horse. But the man is at least a hundred years old, if I'm following the breadcrumbs correctly, and a hundred years without fucking, ever, is no laughing matter.

It takes him a while to respond, and his lettering is surprisingly calm.

_i have had my share of romances_

So many things to say, so little paper... I settle on the usual light-hearted banter, since it has long been established we are working with a closeted headcase here.

_Contrary to popular belief and the folks who impeached Clinton, blowjobs do not count._

At least he still had the _ego_ of a human highschooler, and actually got drawn into the argument to defend his, like, totally lame innocence.

_harbor neither sentiment nor physical attraction, little to no point_

_The point is closeness. Intimacy. It's not about the destination, it's about the journey._

And other proven lines to convince prudes that fucking around is totally classy. Cough.

_nothing more intimate than knowing someone's innermost, unvoiced thoughts_

That gave me pause. We'd been jotting responses down in between actual note-taking, so my hesitation wasn't unusual. But I was thunder-fucking-struck. Here he was admitting to a crippling inability to get off because there was a constant stream of inner-monologue harshing his boner. Me being the only one he's ever met in the span of a century who didn't cloud the air with uncontrollable thought-vomit... If A=B and B=C, then I had to get crackin' on that whole 'sentiment' thing or Edward Cullen would never get laid. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just way too sad to consider. I'd already tried a full-frontal barrage and been met with heavy resistance; it was time to deploy covert tactics.

It is near the end of class when I flip the paper over and, after a deep breath, breach the uncharted waters.

_Got any plans for this weekend? I'm thinking about going into Seattle for some supplies._

_don't think your truck can make the trip?_

If that was the way he wanted to play it, then sure._  
_

_Saturday afternoon? DUDE BORROW YOUR SISTER'S CONVERTIBLE._ 8D

He shook his head with a wry smile, folding the paper in half to hide our conversation. I focused on the documentary until Banner stopped the film and warned everyone that the lights were going back on. Suddenly our proximity was obvious, and we edged apart as others stretched and yawned and blinked and complained.

I pulled up our note, crumpled it in one hand and scored a three-pointer in the wastebin by the door.

Spider, fly, et cetera.

* * *

Mike cornered me in the locker room after gym, and though he danced around the subject eventually it came down to Henn and What Was Her Problem Anyway. I really had no idea, and was elbow-deep in my own precarious amount of drama besides. If Mike broke Henn's heart, her brothers might just threaten to break his legs or something. If I broke Edward's heart, his brothers would actually break my legs.

Not that heartbreaking was even IN the equation, but you see where I'm going with this. Sorry you can't get past first base, dude, BUT I COULD DIE.

And that was the lovely thought on my mind as I left the school still shower-damp and extra vulnerable to the late winter air. The temperature might have risen, but it was still fuck-all freezing to me and I glared jealously at the kids running around in t-shirts PUT A SWEATER ON YOU'LL CATCH PNEUMONIA _gawd_.

So up to this point I hadn't really gotten a good look at the Hale half of the undead orphan brigade, Thing One and Thing Two perched on the back of the red convertible. They were almost too blonde and gorgeous to stare at directly, believably blood siblings except for the fact that Jasper had brown eyes and Rosaline had blue. I half expected them to sing "Edelweiss" at each other and trade sweaters. A group of die-hard car aficionados milled about some paces away, sneaking glances and speaking low.

"So, uh, BMW?" My breath leapt out to join the dwindling fog of the day.

Rosaline flicked a glance over me like I was radio static interrupting her favorite operetta. Jasper gave me a measuring look, deigned to answer. "Yeah, an M3." He said it 'thray', decidedly more southern than his 'sister' and the reason I surmised he didn't talk much. Probably missed the sun even more than I did.

"Oh. Nice." I was relieved to discover the doorhandle behind me gave way, and fled into the relative safety of the Volvo's passenger seat to pretend to nap or something until Edward joined me. Or his siblings ate me. You know, either. A small dark figure loomed up in the rearview mirror and I turned, startled. Alice dimpled at me.

"Ah, hey. Did you want shotgun?"

She seemed to consider the offer, then shook her head. "Why don't you sit back here with me, though." It was not a request, and I clambered awkwardly into the back. "So, Charlie - if that is your real name, Charlie." Once I settled back a skinny, steely arm hooked around mine, twining our hands together.

I laughed. "It's not my real name, no, but you already knew tha -"

"Yeah, well, kiddo, there are a _lot_ of things I _don't_ know about you. Like whether or not you want to turn my brother into a science experiment."

"Really?" I had never been so okay with the fear of getting beaten up by a girl as I was okay with my fear in that moment. "My intentions toward Edward are entirely non-academic and I'm sorry if that grosses you out, or - " I cough lightly, mouth dry. "I mean, he could have just let me die. Twice. So if you have a problem with that, you should probably take it up with him."

Alice squeezes my hand lightly, pats my forearm. The sweetest threat I had ever gotten. "I wanted to ask you about that exact thing. That second time he saved your life; he refuses to talk about it. You understand why I'm having this little chat with you? Edward tells me everything, and what he doesn't tell me he'll tell Carlisle, and he hasn't said a word to anybody. So I'm asking you, now."

A vague nausea pounced. "Some psychopath attacked me. Edward killed him, and we talked. That's honestly all that happened, Al, c'mon."

Her expression softened from manic anger to a more familiar concern. "You were attacked?"

"Yyyeah... It was my fault, actually, sort of. Just being dumb, taking risks."

"Oh. Okay." She settled back, releasing me, combing fingers idly through her short jet-black hair. "Hey, Charlie?"

I had pulled my backpack out of the passenger seat to check for Spanish homework, one half of my brain still running mundane concerns in the background. "Hmm?"

"Don't take stupid risks with Edward. He'd hurt himself if it meant saving an innocent life. I can't exactly - " She sighed, a dramatic cue. "I'm asking you this, because there's nothing I can really _do_ to stop you from making your own choices. Despite my family's bluster, we really don't hurt people if it can be avoided."

"Hey, no worries BB. I am an _outstanding_ keeper of secrets." I offer her one of my own manic stage grins. "Comes with the territory." I wink, poke around the bag even after I find the bright yellow assignment sheet just for an excuse to look busy and unconcerned.

"No, Charlie, you don't get it." She leans forward, crowding me against the smooth curve where seat met door. My backpack is the only divider between us. "Edward killed somebody for you. He can't erase a person's dying thoughts from his mind. It stays with him forever."

I'd be sad at this news if I could get past the _o-god-get-away-you-crazy-bitch_ reflex. Her eyes, so dark brown they seem black in the late afternoon, are wide and pleading and don't disclaim the theory that she's a few _vaqueros_ short of a full posse. I can count her eyelashes.

"So what should I do?" Other than cower before your fury, o most bipolar of undead maidens.

"Just try to stay out of trouble. Stop giving Edward a hard time... It's not easy for him, you know."

I grunt, easing back as Alice gives me some breathing room. "Yeah. Apparently I smell delicious, like literally."

She giggles. "You really do. Edward and Jasper have the hardest time staying on the wagon. Dunno why, just keep that in mind." And with that, she left. Here then gone, with a soft swift click of the door. Sometime during our interlude, the convertible and half the student parking lot had vacated.

Edward appeared on the scene lacking his usual composure. "Sadie Hawkins dance." He offered by way of greeting, twisting in the driver's seat to quirk an eyebrow. "Am I the chauffeur this afternoon?"

Sheepishly, I clamber out of the back seat into the bracing fresh air and close the door behind me even as I'm reopening the passenger front. "Who is Sadie Hawkins?"

Edward's turn to look sheepish. "A dance named after a revolutionary feminist, with the invitation roles reversed. It's in the school newsletter."

I can't help it, my face curls up into a grin. Edward swamped by fans, and I had missed it. "I bet you had to turn them down _politely_. I bet you were a _gentleman_."

He revved the engine, o manly show of agitation. "I tried."

* * *

"You are unusually quiet this afternoon." Oh man, if that line wasn't straight out of a made-for-TV-movie about miscarriages, I don't know what is.

"Had a chat with Alice. She's really protective for a younger sister." The suspicion creeps into my voice; how deep did the 'sibling' facade go, exactly?

"Actually Alice is older than me. Maybe Carlisle's age, a little younger, we don't really know. Anyway, haha, between her and Esme it's amazing any of us are ever allowed to leave the house." He winces at my expression. We're parked in my driveway, wasting time until Charlie comes home and scares him off. "I was exaggerating. What did Alice say?"

"A lot of crazy things, not gonna lie. So, then like, what exactly _was_ the Texan's last thought before he died?" It just kinda came out, the idea tripping over itself and landing crumpled and bloody at the bottom of the conversational stairs.

Edward is staring straight ahead, eyes round and expression drawn, as if he'd just been punched in the stomach. His gaze traces a sudden erratic pattern in the air, flicking back and forth like a newscaster trying to read a glitching teleprompter. "Pale heat." Shaking his head, he shrugs himself away from the blank introspection. "It was quick so he didn't have time to suffer. Didn't register what was happening, mind still full of, ah, you."

A long, overfed silence. Try to get it back on the tracks, Burns. "Jesus fucking Christ, no wonder you don't want to make out." Swing and a miss. "I'll be square with you, I'm having a hard time taking all of this in. Um, Alice recently told me. So, hey, don't kill anyone for me." I scrub my face. "_Aaugh_. Look, I won't do stupid shit if you promise not to throw yourself in front of any trains to rescue any damsels in distress. Even if it's me. _Especially_ if it's me."

A cold laugh. "You are no damsel." He starts the engine, a clear signal that I should probably leave. "You're the goddamn train."


	10. TEN

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN:** Interrogative Complications

* * *

I got maybe four hours of intermittent sleep that night. I freely admit to being morbidly hooked, like a kid staring at roadkill or those people who listen in on their neighbor's messy gin-fueled divorces. Just couldn't walk away from this, no way.

I threw the coverlet off as often as I dragged myself to the end of the bed to pull it back up, at once too hot and then way too cold. I wanted to jerk off, settle my nerves, but suspected 'pale heat' had been a description of me, of skin and the visceral act of redestruction. Every time my hand sank down my front, the senses rebelled, shouted SOUR WINE BREATH and BLOOD ON YOUR FACE, and my dick would shrivel back like a frightened sea creature.

I so did _not_ look forward to the therapy I'd need when I hit middle age and this shit was still affecting me.

Woke up before Charlie Sr. and made a fresh pot of coffee with the honest intent to drink it. Adding creamer didn't help the ache in my gut, and I slumped over the kitchen table to nap against the cool metal surface before good ol' Sheriff descended to ask after my health. I gave him a thumbs-up and replaced my tired bones to the couch, grunting in answer when he attempted further communication before leaving. The house settled into early morning stillness, coffee machine percolating conversationally from the kitchen.

My eyes popped open.

Wait a minute. Wait just a goddamn minute. Why hadn't anyone bothered _me_ about the Sadie Hawkins or Baskin Robbins or whatthefuckever dance? That shit ain't right. The announcement had only been yesterday, but still. Mr. Tall-Cold-and-Pretty got held back in the halls by requests while I didn't get so much as a phonecall? Laaame. I stirred and prepared to leave, planning a nap in my truck until first bell (or all day, depending on how comfy I got); and do I even have to tell you? Edward's car was in the drive, headlights dimmed.

"So how long am I under probation?" My voice is doing that sexy had-a-rough-night scratchy thing, like I'd spent the evening chain-smoking in a bar instead of boxing my own pillows and kicking at the mattress.

"Good morning, Bernardo. Not much sleep, I take it?"

I'm fishing around the side of the seat for the recline lever, backpack dropped haphazard at my feet. "What was your first clue?" I gave up probing around the unfamiliar vehicle and buckled the seatbelt with a yawn.

"Circles under your eyes."

"Rhetorical question there, pal." I groaned, laying my head back. He had the heat on full-blast and the warmth sank straight to my bones. "So how long are we going to do this babysitter deal?"

"We can take your truck this weekend if it'll make you feel any better."

"Mmm, I love the smell of compromise in the morning." There was no answer, either nothing more to say or the merciful act of Letting Me Sleep. I had just nodded off to the rhythmic pass of road under tires when the car swiveled and lurched to a halt with Edward's signature parking finesse. That kind of black-out sleep - when you can't even tell any time has passed - that's the worst. I didn't think I was going to make it past second period.

Edward was resting one arm against the steering wheel, half-turned like that day in my kitchen. I was too strung out to give a flying fuck whether or not he was staring at me, but he smiled really small and accidental like and my mouth responded the same, without my fucking permission. "So hey, what do vampires do when everyone else is sleeping?" It was an awkward question but c'mon, I'm only firing on three cylinders here.

"Currently, _I_ am studying medicine. You'd have to ask the others what they get up to."

I frown, stretch an arm up behind my head as a pillow. "Kinda wanna know about that, about your family." I blink, rubbing my face before disrupting the whole comfortable setup to lean forward and dial the heat down. The seatbelt goes off, as does the jacket. It's still forty minutes until first bell, so says the dashboard clock. "Like the whole parent-sibling thing. And I guess I got that Alice isn't 'one of Carlisle's', or wait, how does that even work?"

He holds a loose hand up, not exactly a military HALT but more like a conductor telling the strings to take it easy and the brass to just shut the fuck up because nobody could hear the percussion. (What, I'm cultured, shutup.) "I'll tell you, but not until this weekend. I think you owe me a few answers first."

Dude you guys I am so tired I don't even fucking bother to argue I just stare blankly like dear GOD I could be passed out in the nurse's office by now. I just. I don't even. I think I'm gonna weep, because it's not like he's even putting out for any of this shit.

"Why did you move to Forks?"

"...Heh. Yeah, all right, you deserve to know. Sure." Deep breath in, too much gravity in the air. "So, back at my old school, there was a new T.A. in the art department. One day he gets put into the hospital by Nate, who is a friend 'a mine. Nate goes to jail for this, reasonably enough, having been busted for the meth they found in his locker." I wince. "Nobody was really surprised about that, guy's a crazy punk. But there was an investigation as to how a T.A. got involved in the fight, whether it was the drug thing or not. They didn't exactly handcuff him to the hospital bed, but he was given a court date."

"So you factor into this with, what, guilt by association?"

"No, see, the _real_ reason for the fight, see, was this dumb rumor that the new T.A was fucking Nathan's _boyfriend_."

Thunderous silence.

I plow ahead, wringing tinnitus out of one ear with a pinky. "It was really moreso for the benefit of Nate's inherent need to involve himself in crazy shit than it was anything really, y'know, between him and me. And Gordon never asked to get involved and it was, ah, stupid and my fault entirely." I kick the dash lightly, resting chin on knee.

"And did this T.A. of yours actually sleep with his student?"

"Man, don't even fucking start with me. That 'T.A. of mine' had a name, a life. Gordon got the shit kicked out of him, lost his job, was publicly humiliated; all _I_ had to deal with was one irate maternal figure and exile to Sticksville."

He's not looking at ME, he's trying to look INSIDE of me. "But you're just - "

"Just _what_?" I am one fucking stunned Bernardo Swan is what I am. "I haven't been 'a kid' since, ooh, let's see, my fourteenth year. Second year of summer camp, if you're really curious." I have no trouble finding my way out of Edward Cullen's car, filled with the bitter kind of energy like so much coffee and anger. "Y'know the term 'teenager' was nonexistent before the fifties. Back then I would have simply been a young _adult_," I lean down to hiss from the open door. "But of course they'd have killed Gordon. Strung him up in the fucking square!" Wired strength slams the door with an unsatisfying clunk, damn those noiseless new models.

"What do you mean?" Oh yeah, so _now_ Mr. foot-and-a-half-personal-space decides to walk close? Fuck that.

"I mean that it's _different_ for us, Edward!" I shove against his hard stomach, doing more to push myself away than actually budge the supernatural pain-in-my-ass. "Or maybe they'd have shipped me to a fucking mental bin instead, you think? Jesus fucking Christ, we have the obligation to _take care_ of each other! It's not as bad now as it was back then, sure, but Gordon wasn't even _Out_ yet and - " I laugh, breathless. "And you probably have no idea what I'm talking about, you poor lifeless fuck."

The parking lot is filling up, and I guess Edward doesn't want to 'make a scene' (if I may be SO married couple here for a moment) because he doesn't respond or really move. I mean at this point I'm not gonna keep my voice down. I mean really. Ffffff.

A fine mist cools our stand-off before the sky breaks open in an icy deluge. A few early classmates dart past but I let it soak in a moment, dousing my anger. Edward just grows devastatingly sexier in the rain, eyes shadowed under a pinched brow.

I blink, the sidewalk drags under my feet and the rain is blocked out; he had grasped my shoulders and pushed me back so skillfully to the shelter of the overhang that I didn't even have room to get angry (angrier) in the face of surprise. "If your next move _isn't_ to kiss me, I'm gonna sock you." I hiss under my breath and give him to the count of ten to just stand there and stare at me, then I shrug his grip off and punch him in the arm. I'm too tired to put any zest into the swing, and sway against a gum-spotted brick pillar to listen to the rain fall.

Didn't give a fuck if he left or stayed.

"What's your favorite color?" The question was hesitant and far away, and I almost thought I had dreamed it up in the few moments of shut-eye.

"Dude, that is the worst question. I _work_ with colors; I don't choose favorites."

"All right." A small laugh. "Your most favored in a specific category."

"The bright orange crayon labeled 'macaroni and cheese'." I look up and cross my arms over the heavy fabric of my jacket, hugging it to my chest in the disguise of simply hanging on. Casual like. I can wield body language like it ain't no thang, having become the proverbial waterbuffalo in the African bush waving his proverbial ears in proverbial fucking defense.

"Why that one?"

"Fuck man, I don't know. It's the only one my dog didn't eat when I was a kid. What's _your_ favorite color?"

"Nevermind that." Ah yes, Edward being taciturn assured me this wasn't some bizarre latent-coma dream. "I think it's fair if I ask the questions for today. You had a dog?"

"No; I had an appetite for brightly colored things at the age of four, like literally. They serve breakfast in the cafe at this school?"

"I believe so."

"Excellent. I'll buy you a bagel - er. I'll. Nevermind." I could tell him to his face I wanna suck him off without a flinch, but one misstep about his fucking _diet_ and suddenly my ears and neck are on _godamn fire_? This is my ridiculous life.

* * *

So the guy spends what's left of the morning before class just, like, pelting me with these questions. It was all really generic gameshow personality trivia, too. Favorites of food, places, music, hobbies. It was to his advantage I was too fucking tired to be glib or sarcastic, but by the time lunch rolled around, well... So we sat down at the usual deserted table and he asked what my favorite gemstone was and I skipped right past the barbed-wire metallic-enforced bunker-o-tact and answered "Cock. I don't have a favorite fucking gemstone, Edward, I like cock. I _favor_ cock. That doesn't make me an absolute woman, you heinous asshole. And I change my mind about my favorite flower, it's not dandelions when they're all puffy; it's cock.

"My favorite soda, that's cock too. Favorite weather forecast? Cock, with a chance of hot dicking." The impatience that had been piling up behind my drowsiness now burst through the cognition gates despite how many classmates were starting to look our way. "You aren't shipping me over from Russia so I can keep your house and have your babies. Fuck's sake. Or is this another way of making up for the whole can't-read-my-mind thing?" I lowered my voice, chest squeezing out an extra little heartbeat when he leaned in closer with no small amount of concern.

"You really need to lay off the caffeine, Bernardo."

"There it is again, my _actual_ name. You are so fucking weird. Fun story about the origin of the 'Swan' clan, actually. You know the nearby La Push reserve? All those tribal-turned-english last names? Black, Clearwater, and shit? And stuff? 'Swan' is one 'a them, except we don't have swans anywhere near this region. We have geese, though; it's a mistranslation. My name was supposed to be Bernardo Goose, could you fucking imagine? _Bernardo Goose_." My forehead thunks against the tabletop in theatric exasperation, clenched fist banging weakly in despair.

"Nicotine is also a mood disruptor." He taps the table between us with two fingers, like trying to get a dog to pay attention.

I straighten up, slide my food tray over between us and bite into a spoonful of chili, cracking an edge of the flimsy plastic spork. Chew. Swallow. "Yeah? Okay. I'm like this all the time, though. Ask anybody; ask your sister, fuck, she knows how up and down it can be. You know Renee almost put me on Ritalin once? But she was going through her hippy herbal medicine phase and decided to crush vitamins into every PBJ instead. Like that was the same fucking thing as putting a kid on Speed, haha, damn."

"I don't think badly of you, so you can stop this anytime."

"Then what's with the twenty questions? Think I don't know a conversational distraction when I see one?"

"I'm glad you told me. I am."

"You are really bad at supplementary mind-reading, you know that?" The chili goes down a little harder by the second spoonful. I leave the food at the table and disappear into the restrooms to hunt down a smoke because that's the kind of small-town school this was. By Senior year at least half your peers were jaded or on their way out, the ones not reserving their health for football scholarships were doing the cool thing and the cool thing was still, thank fuck, smoking in the boy's room.

* * *

Edward had arrived at Bio before me, and half the class milled around their tables waiting for Banner to wheel in with the audiovisual frame (_that's_ what it's called, derp). Usually I could survive an all-nighter if I could make it past noon, but the drone of rain on the building and dim atmosphere lulled me back into a drowse. Once the lights went off for the film, I'd be doomed. "Shit, I left my notes in your car. Keys?"

"No, you didn't, and car theft is still a crime. Even for the Sheriff's son."

"Ha fucking _ha_, man. I wasn't going to drive home. I was going to nap." I sat heavily in my chair. "But you're too clever for me."

"You can sleep. Copy my notes." He said it so quietly I had to look twice.

"Hey, really?"

He nodded, already occupied with notebook and pencil. The squeaking wheels heralded Banner's approach, and soon as the lights went off I made a pillow of my arms and dove into the nap.

At least, I would have. Too antsy and nervous, there in the dark with the subdued breathing of my classmates and rustling paper and droning film overpowering the calm of Edward's... well, of the dead silence beside me. I snuck a peek over my shoulder at the stony face outlined in the blue of the monitor light; studied the way muscle and skin lay flawless over bone that would never settle into the heavy strength of late adulthood. Always seventeen, what a mindfuck.

Edward blinks before his gaze flickers away from the documentary, piecing me together from head to toe, probably trying to figure why I wasn't out yet. I'm hardly breathing, a dull ache across my shoulders I wished he could just reach over and soothe out. (Yeah, and then I could drag him to a bathroom stall and make with the wild monkey sexing already, because seriously this movie-theater atmosphere was making me so fucking horny and had it really been that long since I had a good, non-terrifying fuck?) Do vampires fall in love? Yes, obsessively_. _Unless they don't.

Bah, it's not like it mattered. I diverted my attention back to the genetics lesson on screen, too tired to move but too keyed up to actually sleep. Maybe junior Dr. Dead over there was right, maybe it was just the symptoms of a new coffee habit. Maybe I was just horny as all fuck, and stuck in the daily grind of normal teenhood while my lessons after the schoolbell were Horror Survival 101. I was stewing in stale adrenaline with no outlet for hundreds of square miles, except the one right beside me, who was buried under however many decades of repression you couldn't dent with a tire iron.

The lights finally came on and I blinked away papery dryness, flashing Edward a wry grimace. His return expression was ambivalent as he rose from his chair, fingertips on the edge of the table, clearly waiting for me. Excuse me while I step behind this curtain to do a little victory jig and maybe scream my brains out - waiting to walk me to gym, how facking adorable is that? He didn't even pelt me with another round of psychoanalysis on the way, just strolled along beside.

I jerked my chin in a goodbye salute once we reached the gym doors, turning to join Mike, who was probably waiting to bend my ear about Jenn, judging by that unhappy glare. Cold fingers brushed against my wrist, sending an electric tingle all the way to my shoulder. "Geeze, _what_?" I turned, rubbing my jittery arm, to the surprised faces of approaching classmates. Edward, nowhere to be seen.

* * *

Gym, consequently, was an hour of silent torture. Mike didn't have two words to say to me, and kept aiming the badminton bird at my head. I was too tired to respond with the aggression this deserved, at least until he shouldered past me on the way out of the locker rooms and I socked him in the back of the head to show him what it FEELS LIKE and it dissolved into a scuffle. I think he actually grazed my jaw, but the end tally was just a lot of shoving and cursing."The _fuck_, _man_?" I held up both hands after a particularly vicious shove separated us. "What crawled up _your_ ass and died?"

"Newton, Swan, front and center."

Fuuuck me.

So I was late getting out of gym, having been paired with a stony-faced Mike Newton to fold tumble mats and stow balls (the athletic kind, you pervs, although surliness was certainly an improvement on Mike's babe factor). When I joined Edward in his car he was calmly staring ahead, music that sounded suspiciously like Modest Mouse thumping from across the lot.

"This Jasper's CD, too?" I shouted from the driver's side window. Edward, startled because haha couldn't sense ME coming, dialed the volume down before starting the engine. He paused mid-turnover, swinging around in his seat to look behind us as I climbed in. When he didn't turn frontward again, I swiveled to see what the fuck was up. He was glaring at a figure just leaving the building, making their way to what I recognized as Mike's car on the far side of the lot.

"What did you _do_, Bernardo?"

"_Me_?" I squawked. "He tried to pick a fight in gym just now. No fucking reason."

Edward made a low noise. "There IS a reason."

"You gonna go ahead and tell me what that is?"

"He resents you. A lot."

I laugh. "Yeah, okay, but _why_?"

"I'm not psychic. You should ask him."

"Cute."

"It's the truth, and good advice besides."

"Are you waiting for him to leave the lot first? I mean, it's not like he'd try and run us off the road - "

Again, startled. Again, keys the ignition. "So do you miss it? Living in Arizona?"

I sigh. Here we go again, ladies and gents. "I miss the heat. Never thought I'd say that."

"The sun?"

"Not exactly, but yeah that too. More like what the sun does to the scenery; desert landscape is so uncluttered and vast, but when you look closer, it's really complex." I yawn. "Do you miss the sun?"

"No."

Well, that was... kinda surprising. "They did a study about areas of the world that don't get the twelve hours of light every day, like the Netherlands and shit. That it affects the brain in the long term. Icelandic art and mythology is super fucked up, probably from lack of sunlight during them long winter days 'n shit." I kick my foot up on the dash, resting chin on knee to keep myself awake. Edward's car: great for personal revelation AND napping!

The rain had started again twice as fiercely by the time we got to my driveway, and the prospect of an icy dousing kept me in Edward's car more than the agonizing conversation that was certified All About Me.

_Parting of the Sensory_ came up from the Modest Mouse album and I cranked the volume and pretended to rock out with a set of drumstick improv pencils. "This song is about dying!" I mock-whispered when Edward hastily reached forward to kill the volume and skip ahead to _Ocean Breathes Salty_. I groaned. "You're into this band for it's feel-good songs, aren't you? You absolute fucking sap."

He shrugged. "I think all music is about life and living, even when it's about death. Especially so."

"That... yeah. Okay." I sat back and Edward slowly took the volume back up as the rain pounded its own accompaniment around us. Upon closer inspection, though, this wasn't one of their more optimistic set of lyrics after all. The song's end would be the cue to get out into the mess the sky was making of the yard, so to prevent this inevitability I skipped ahead to the next song. "_Bankrupt on Selling_, ick, slow guitar."

"Thought you liked the tragic stuff."

"I just realized it's all tragic." Dialed ahead to _Float On_. "Except this one. You can't tell me there's anything sad in these here fucking amazing lyrics."

"Maybe everything in the refrain."

"Glass half empty kinda guy, hey Cullen?" I cranked the volume, mouthing the chorus and closing my eyes in bliss. We'll all float on all right, so don't worry. Fuck yeah. I think I even saw Edward smile, and DEFINITELY saw him mouth along with the part about getting scammed but learning sleight-of-hand so it ended up being worth it. Wasn't gonna make a big deal out of it lest that send him scuttling back into his shell, but still. STILL. Heehee, we were totally just jamming out for like, the better half of the evening.

I would like to take this moment to thank Modest Mouse for making their songs longer than the usual three minutes. They might not have been perfect make-out tunes, but they were hella good stall-in-the-driveway background noise. Edward even unbuckled his seatbelt and took his hands from the steering wheel! Progress.

"AHAHA! Fuck yes, _The Devil's Workday_!" I just let the wail of the sax bite right through flesh and bone because man, it just doesn't get any better than gritty bayou-rock. And yes, Edward IS smiling, for the whole two minutes it takes for the song to finish.

"Thought that would have been too old-timey for you."

"A-are you being glib? Fuck that scene, man, I don't care _when_ it was made, so long as it was made with _soul_, man." Too easily did I pull up that smokes-too-much blues voice. "To be fair, I thought it would be too, y'know, blasphemous for you."

"I'm not a Puritan, Bernardo. I'm... not even a Christian."

"Wha - _really_?"

"I _was_ a Christian, back when I had a soul to be preserved."

"Oh. Well. Good to know." Awwwkward. "So uh." A cough. "Guess this means you'll behave because it's, like, the right thing to do. And not because there's some threat of damnation hanging over your head or whatever." I'm a subversive little atheist, yes I am.

"Yes." Edward brings the music down further, so that it is a tinned whisper lost in the rain. "Yes, that's exactly what - that's exactly right. Why? Do you think I'm going to break my promise and attack you?"

"I - no! Hey, look, I've been awake for a night and a day, I'm not really at a hundred percent right now. I'm just, you know... you're 'damned', I guess. So what's stopping you from doing the uh, the less-than-damning, er, sins or whatever?"

"You're going to have to be more specific." But he was giving me that 'you're not the sharpest tack in the box' grin again.

"_Nothing_. The answer, Edward, is 'nothing'. There is nothing stopping you from enjoying, like, booze and gambling and fucking and whatever else it is in which Jesus-camp freaks do not imbibe."

"Ooh. All right." He is nodding, eyebrows high but eyes guarded and smile just on this side of patronizing. "Thank you for enlightening me."

"Ha_haaa_. Fuck it, nevermind."

"I'm not going to judge you for a few scratch-card tickets, you know."

"Fucking - shut up!" The laughter explodes in the middle of my anger, a sort of growling helpless mirth. "Don't be a twatwaffle."

Thus it is Edward's turn to laugh. "That was, ah, colorful. How. Did you come up with that."

"Internet."

"I'm taking the internet away from you."

Okay, so, shitty beginning to the day, fan-fucking-tastic way to end it. "So am I done for now? No more pressing concerns about what flavor ice cream I prefer or other trivial regard?"

"I need no reassurance that your favorite flavor icecream is cock."

"Damn straight it is. Time is it, anyway?"

Instead of turning the car on so he could read the dash, Edward glances out the window. The rain is still going strong, but there's a brightness to the air that suggests the sun is closer to the horizon, maybe even setting. "It is, in fact, twilight. Safest time of day for us, you know."

"You and every big cat on the Serengeti." What, I watch educational programs, thought we went over this already.

Edward smiles wistfully. "Never been to the African continent."

"Don't tell me; Emmet wants to hunt himself a _godamn lion_. Else his manliness would go unconfirmed."

"Not Emmet, no."

"_You_?"

A casual shrug; methinks my incredulity hath given offense. "Like Hemmingway."

"AHAHA! Oh, oh man. You're a republican too, aren'tcha? _Fff_uck me, that's precious."

"Isn't your father returning from work soon?"

"Yeah yeah, I'm gettin'. Don't want you parked in."

"Did you tell him where you're going this Saturday?"

"Uh... not yet." Color me suspicious. "Why?"

"It's just a good idea to tell people when you leave town. And to mention with whom you are leaving."

"Ahaha, this sounds like, what, I don't even know. Like a Stranger Danger conference."

"You have to meet me halfway, Bernardo. Give me some incentive not to just - " A frustrated sigh. "Some small threatening incentive to bring you back."

My eyes, o my droogs, are wide as saucepans. And not those dinky little apartment sets, either, I'm talking Polish Grandmother kitchenware here. "Mkay. Tell my cop dad. Got it."

"Did I scare you?"

"Fucking - yes! Yes, that's a little scary. Thanks. Fuck. Not like I planned on sleeping _tonight_, either."

"I didn't mean to alarm you, but we should be practical about this. Do you want to call it off?"

"No." Yes. If only for peace of mind enough to not wake up in cold sweats every night for the rest of my life. "It's not even you - it's that guy. I had his blood on my face. And his spunk all over my front bits." I gesture frantically, as if trying to brush invisible crumbs from my shirt. That were also spiders. "Kinda hard to just let that go."

Edward's shoulders relaxed, expression softening around the edges. "That's why you asked about him? About his last thoughts?"

I fidgeted with my backpack, which I had dragged into my lap in preparation to leave. "I suppose, yeah." I blew the hair out of my eyes. It was getting long, maybe I'd be able to tie it back soon. "Think it just made it worse, though."

"Sounds about right." We shared a moment of companionable misery.

"Well, I guess I could just knock myself out with the usual narcotic cocktail. Unless there's some mystical hypnotic vampire power you could use to make this any easier. 'Cos that would be supreme."

"I'm sorry; there isn't. At least not for you."

"Bah. You haven't even tried."

Low, reluctantly, "I _have_ tried."

"Oh. Haha. Well then! See you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride, again." He waited till I was to the porch before starting the engine, though I told myself that I couldn't feel his eyes against my back.


	11. ELEVEN

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**: No Rest for the Wicked

* * *

As soon as I got in the door, my cell buzzed. Death by popularity - startled into heart attack from ringing phone. Best headstone ever.

"_You're taking me to the dance_."

Sigh. "Hello, Henn. I'm what?" Dropping my coat to make my way to the kitchen.

"_Nobody else has asked you, right? I know Angela's been eying that Eric Yorkie kid lately, so she got no right to bitch if we wanna step out_."

"Hahaha. Ha. Ahh, thanks. I needed that." Nothing edible in the fridge. Feck.

"_I'm serious_."

"What the _hell_, Jennifer, what about Mike? He nearly took my head off this afternoon 'cos of this shit!"

"_Good_."

I sputtered into the phone, slamming the fridge shut. "What the fuck, seriously, Henn."

Her voice honeys, "_Just do this for me, Charlie. I won't ask you any more favors, I promise. And I'll owe you one_."

"Are you trying to get me killed? You don't hedge in on a friend's girl. Not cool."

"_We both know your pansy ass isn't hedging in on anybody's girl, _pandejo_. C'mon, I don't wanna go alone. We'll be in a group; it'll be fun_."

I groan. There was no reason to decline _fun_. "Do I have to dress up?"

"_Haha, yes! Thankyou thankyou _thankyou_. This'll be spectacular. My dress is a light periwinkle blue, so get the corsage to match. I don't care what you wear, just make sure your face is all metal and junk. He hates the fact that you are ten times cooler than he'll ever be_."

"That, uh..." I listen patiently to Henn's tirade about Mike and how immature and jealous and cute and sweet he was. Have I ever mentioned that girls are terrifying? Because girls are fucking _terrifying_. "You owe me, like, thirty bucks if it comes to a black eye. You know that, right?"

Henn just laughed, the gleeful self-satisfied giggle of the female and thoroughly insane.

* * *

The Sheriff was inquisitive over dinner, a pale shadow of the drilling I'd gotten all day from Edward. Apparently, he knew exactly what a Sadie Hawkins' dance was, and expressed concern over my ability to attend.

"I'm going with Jennifer's group."

"Oh, well, that sounds like fun."

"I _guess_." I picked at the congealed brown sauce of the frozen dinner's imitation meat, forever hating the gap right before payday - when the groceries stretched themselves thin in any single-parent household.

"Is there an after-party, or can I expect you home by midnight?"

"Don't really know yet. The dance isn't until, like, I dunno..." I huff. "A while. A month, few weeks, shit." I shrug in apology to the almighty dad-glare.

Charlie Sr. bites into his carrots, plowing bravely ahead in the mandatory dinner-time conversation. "How about tomorrow; doing anything with your friends?"

I perk up. "Yeah."

"Because if you're free, we could check out the fishing before the tourists arrive."

"Yeah, no, I'm going with Edward to the city. To Seattle. Need to buy some supplies and just, like, soak up the culture of this our most distinguished northwestern state."

"Sunday?"

"Tomorrow's Saturday."

"Good! Don't stay out too late, since I'm waking us up early Sunday morning."

I sulk, stabbing at the potatoes. I didn't want to drag my ass out of bed before dawn to freeze in a pair of musty waders in the middle of a river, only to return home elbow-deep in fish guts and exhaustion. Not that I didn't owe the most patient of paternal figures a bit of manly bonding time, but I wanted to devote my weekend to investigating the Cullens.

_Lightbulb_.

"What about Billy and Jake? Haven't been fishing with them in a while."

"Hn." Dad considered his fork with a frown, then stood to clear the table. "We can invite them next time, Burns." I would hold him to that promise, if only because I didn't want to be a fill-in for my dad's best friend while they were doing the whole old-man disgruntlement thing. Seriously, I got shit to do. Places to go. Vampires to seduce. The Sheriff clears his throat, "So,"

I snap out of my plotting, offering a blank stare to Charlie's further questioning.

"Edward Cullen. Thought you two didn't get along."

"The guy kinda pushed me out of the way of a van. Hard to hold a grudge after that." I escaped the table without helping clean up because nuh-uh, no way were we going down that road. Let the paternal figure think I was just making nice with the good doctor's son, and leave it at that.

After dinner came the task of folding laundry, and the illicit use of cold and pain medicines to knock myself out for the night. It didn't really work straight away, leaving me to stew in the dark of my bedroom while Charlie Sr. unwound to the noise of the television downstairs. Instead of fear, it was a fluttery sort of anticipation that kept me awake. I really actually _liked_ Edward. It wasn't just some perverse urge to endanger myself and totally ruin the guy's longstanding virginity, as enticing a challenge as that was.

No, I... I liked him. He probably liked me back, though I wasn't about to speculate too much on the how or the why of it. Edward Cullen was the single most interesting thing in this entire town; a bright spot in the hurricane shit-storm that had become my life. Even if he'd continue to just roll his eyes and totally cockblock me, I'd still be all the better for just having met him. The world already felt a little bigger, a little newer just knowing he and his family were real.

That headline stamped itself behind my eyelids as I closed them; 'Vampires: they exist'. Holy shit.

* * *

That was the same thought I woke with, nicely enough. Chemical assistance had done its trick; thank god for modern medicine and it's many abuses! It was still dark outside my window; I figured Charlie planned to sleep in for his weekend off, bar tomorrow's fishing trip, so I shaved and dressed as quietly as possible.

Reheated a breakfast of leftover chinese from a few days back, dug up from the back of the fridge because cold cereal just wasn't going to cut it after last night's sad attempt at a meal. The weather channel announced a day of partly-cloudy Suck, high chance of Shitty Forecast continuing through the weekend. Low chance of cloudbreak, even lower chance of weatherman laying off the tooth whiteners. Belatedly realized that a simple ensemble of t-shirt and jeans wasn't going to satisfy the urgent fluttering in my stomach.

Trudged back upstairs to nettle myself in front of a mirror, changing shirts about a dozen times and glaring at the small ceramic dish that held my gauges on the fake marble sink top. On the one hand, we were going to the city. On the other, it was stupid cold outside.

I went with the nice tan button-down, but kept a brown hoodie unzipped overtop, casual like. Rolled the sleeves up to mid forearm (like any lead guitarist who needs to reach the strings unhindered), and tied on all the little floss bracelets I'd collected over the years from my old Phoenix crowd (a collection of small braids, faded from time and strong desert sunlight). I was re-evaluating my snakebite piercings in the mirror when a soft knock from downstairs cut the internal debate short. I crept down the stairs in time to Charlie's snoring, scrawled a hasty note on the pad in the kitchen before grabbing my jacket and keys. Wrestled briefly with the deadbolt, fingers betraying what the rest of my body was screaming: there was something dangerous on the other side of this door. Don't let it in.

I finally got the bolt free and all the trembly bits of fear got shoved rudely to the side by trembly bits of sexual appetite.

"Good morning, Bernardo." Edward Cullen offered politely, quietly.

My grin widened and I pulled my jacket on before joining him in the porch. "You look, uh, better!" Oddly healthy, and had dressed down in the same way I had tried to dress up: bearing a tan wide-neck longsleeve with jeans instead of the usual pressed slacks. No coat, of course.

"Alice and I went hunting last night. It was a ... precaution."

"Oh. Thanks." I bit the word in half, key scratching at the door in the dark until I found the keyhole and turned the lock over. "Deer?"

"I'm sorry? Oh - deer, the animal. Yes. Elk actually, but yes."

"In this region, really?"

"Canada's not that far away."

"Haha, border-hopper." I nodded to the dimly lit driveway where my truck sat.

"Animals don't follow border regulations." It was noted that he very carefully refrained from complaining about my vehicle and its impact on global warming, though he grimaced at the passenger door. "What is that smell?"

"It's liquefied manliness. Or else, pipe tobacco." I climbed in with more glee than necessary, reaching over to pull up the lock so Edward could open his door. "Hop on in, _dear_."

He rolled his eyes but complied. "Put your seatbelt on - feel like this thing is going to spontaneously combust."

The engine roared to life with a compunct jerk of the keys. Letting Clifford growl in idle, I revved the gas and drew my seatbelt over with one arm, blindly fishing for the buckle as the headlights flared up against the white wash of our garage.

"You don't seriously want to drive all the way to Seattle in this noise?" Edward half-shouted.

I let off the gas. Victory. "Not seriously, no. Just wanted to see how far you'd let this go without saying something. At least let me drive us to your car - it's, what, at the end of the drive?"

"Home. I walked here."

"I'm not even going to fucking question that, because now I get to see your house." I grinned, gunning the engine and tugging Clifford into reverse. "Guide me, Sancho Panza!"

"Head downtown, past the Main Street grocer. There's a street after the Yarrow crossing light with a missing sign post. Eventually it becomes a dirt road that used to circle around to the community field."

"Where they used to hold the state fair?" I handle Clifford's bulk well despite the scrutiny I'm under, turning slowly but gaining a steady speed as the headlights blurred against the feathery fog.

"Yes. You weren't alive for that."

"Grandpa was, though. HEY. Hey, did you know my grandpa?" I am both excited and mildly disgusted by the prospect, an odd mix though the truck doesn't waver from the road despite the slight dizziness this conversation was causing.

"I... wasn't in Forks for his lifetime."

"But your family was." He glances sharply my way, and I take a quick peek from the road to smirk at his incredulity. "About sixty years ago, right? Let's see... Henry Swan would have been ten, the year the fire burned down the fair grounds. I heard that story a million times growing up."

"How did you know about my family?" The sharpness of his tone is disheartening to say the least, and here we'd been getting on so well!

"Genealogy records not in the library, I take it?"

"Absolutely not." He seems horrified by the idea, like I'd just suggested physical evidence of Hitler's innocence.

"Come on, man, you know my dad's best friend is Billy Black... don't you?"

"_Ephraim_." Edward's voice was very soft and at the same time very sharp. I make a small questioning noise, pulling off a rolling stop because I can get away with risque driving while he's distracted and moody. He glowers out the window without answering my inquisitive glances, chin in hand.

"So hey." I thought that he'd had enough time to stew once we had reached the nameless side-road, and plunged back into questioning as we traveled down the decaying pavement. "What's an Ephraim?" I had to speak up; the road and Clifford seemed to argue with each other in a grating rumble once we hit the unpaved stretch.

"Not a what; a who." Edward didn't offer any further information, and only spoke again to tell me to keep on ahead and nevermind that newish looking stretch of white-gravel driveway we had just passed. With the perky little mailbox and everything.

"Your neighbors?" I slowed Clifford to reduce the noise of the road to a low grumble, occasionally punctuated by the melodious pings of small stones against metal underbelly.

Edward smiled wanly. "Our house. Technically we have two, and lawfully we own everything from the fairgrounds to five acres west of city boundaries." Which would explain why the city had not improved the road, or replaced the sign. "But not as 'The Cullens'. Back then Carlisle went with the unimaginative surname 'Smith', probably because he didn't think we'd stay very long. Together or otherwise."

I was soaking each word up, straining to drive carefully as to hear everything clearly. "So where are we headed? Not the community field?"

"No, unless you have need of the city's backstock of compost dirt..." How very generous of you, Edward! Go die.

"C'mon man, don't keep me in suspense."

"Drive a little faster and you'll find out sooner." This, in a teasing tone I had never before heard but suspected would show itself in the days to come.

I stomped the gas, lurching into a roaring mud-flecked mess and damn the potholes anyway. We drove until the road ended, and I doubled back to put Clifford on something less dangerous than a muddy field should gravity sabotage our outing and Edward have to carry the damn truck back to dry land. It would just embarrass the poor old machine, really. Yes I care about the dignity of my truck, shut the hell up.

I was slow getting out, even slower to accept the idea that our destination was nestled somewhere beyond the stretch of unkempt Washington landscape. "Are we hiking?" And me without any cigarettes to enjoy in this open air, damn.

"It's just a small walk. Problem?"

"Ehh... No. I _guess_."

"It's only two miles. You'll survive."

"What the fuck could possibly be two miles into the wilderness?" Begrudgingly, I followed his slow amble into the open field, the cuffs of my jeans already damp with dewfall.

"This used to be developed land, you know. All set up for a housing project that got moved to what you know as uptown Forks after the fire."

"I thought you weren't in Forks sixty years ago." Finding enough breath to speak while trudging through an unmown field of waist-high wildlife is fucking hard work. I couldn't even waste the energy in complaining, duck-arming around and swinging my legs like I was wading through the ocean in a snowsuit. I must have been so damn sexy, all redfaced and huffing and coughing and stumbling; it's amazing Edward didn't have his way with me right then and there.

"I didn't live here, no, but I visited; I was here when Billy Black's grandfather, Ephraim, confronted Carlisle."

I was trying to do the math, unsuccessfully, in my head. "Jacob's great-grandfather knew Carlisle?"

"Who is Jacob?"

"Haha - " I couldn't even laugh without losing my breath. "Jacob Black. He's, ah, we grew up together, sort of."

"You wouldn't happen to be related...?" The question is distant, carefully metered compared to his usual blatant drilling.

"Naw. Swans' are from the Makah tribe, not the Quileute." I would have expounded on this further, but really the name was old as dirt and immensely diluted. I wouldn't even get free college, for all that it was worth to have such a delicate pansy-ass fucking ballerina bird for a family totem.

Edward seemed to relax - which was just great because hey, 'racist' could fit snugly next to 'closeted'. True to his habits, he then changed topic: "Did you tell your father you were leaving town with me?"

I paused so I could answer properly, blinking away the collective of dew in the air and nodding. "I even left a note." The jacket came off with a full-body shrug that attempted to lessen both the warmth from the exercise and the noticeable spring thaw that struggled its way through the cloudcover. Suck a dick, weatherman. The forest was already in bud, dead undergrowth through which we marched spotted with green shoots. Everything smelled like wet decay, the metallic bite of snow lingering in the air.

"Thank you. It would be dangerous for us, if this ended badly."

"We already went over this," I whined, slowing to dig a pebble out of the back of my shoe. "I'm not going to sabotage your family, Edward. For one, it'd be a dick thing to do. For two, I kinda like living just as much as the next guy." You know, in case this random hike in the woods was a setup for my 'accidental' death. Best to be clear about these things.

Edward's brow creased. "No, I know. I'm just ... I'm glad you did as I asked. Normally it's like pulling teeth trying to make you see reason."

"Nah, you just need to work on your approach." I throw my jacket over my shoulder and continue in the vague direction to no-man's land, spurred on by the intimate tone he was using now that we were several miles from witnesses. "Catch more flies with honey."

"There are carnivorous flowers in the rainforest that produce an imitation honey scent to lure flies and other insects to their deaths, you know."

I cough around a laugh, and then groan as we approach a dip in the landscape, which led to a pile-up of mountain garbage like loose boulders and dead trees and other equally lame nature shit.

Edward caught the look on my face and turned away. "Believe it or not, this is the shortcut." Was that laughter in his voice? Okay, fuck him and the supernatural ease with which he climbed the debris.

I grasped his offered hand without second-guessing the event; right then the goal was just to get to our destination and I could mince over all this bodily contact once I was clear of the danger of twisting a god-damned knee. "What was this, anyway? Mudslide?" I balanced atop the boulder and wiped sweaty palms against my thighs, surveying the cluttered landscape. The moisture in the air hung thick and cloying, pine resin burning the back of my throat the way creosote might have back in Phoenix. I missed that home with a sudden painful surge; wanted to be in the prickly dry heat that would have made breathing all the easier.

"Tractors, I think. Did bulldozers exist sixty years ago?"

"You're asking _me_? You don't remember?"

"Things get, ah, pushed out. Some people have longer memories, and this is true in death as in life. I just happen to have no head for dates." He flicked the air in front of us, as if he could just clear the half-developed mess stretched out before our perch like one would clear a desktop. "This wasn't even my town until very recently."

I picked my way carefully across the barricade, needing no help in scrambling down though my heart thundered in my chest from the way Edward's cold fingertips managed to slide discreetly against the inside of my forearm when he thought I'd stumble. "What do you mean, 'your town'?" My voice was a rasp that I'd later blame on reaffirmed smoking habit but right then knew to be pure hormonal overthrow of the senses. I mean, never could work the 'delicate twink-in-distress' angle before, but eh.

Edward's dulled eyes followed me as I leaned back against a broken tree. He shook himself out of a reverie, as if the question had taken its time traveling through the air. "Um." He blinked. I blinked. "It's... you know. I haven't lived here. Now I do."

I squinted at him, tugging my hoodie off to tie it around my waist before propping myself more comfortably against the pungent damp bark. I could play the waiting game, and I could play it fucking well.

"Look, we have to tell others when a certain area, more or less, well, I mean you can't just - _would you_ stop looking at me like that? The town and surrounding parks... sort of, in a non-legal sense... _belong_ to my family. We're keeping the people in the area safe, that's all. Others respect the boundaries. I don't necessarily agree with the setup, nor the demands that brought it about, but on the whole am glad it is thus." His mouth snaps shut and I think I have glimpsed the ninety-plus years that had been lurking behind the all-amurican teen facade.

"I... have no idea what you just said."

He huffs, jaw pushed out. Crosses and uncrosses his arms, glaring at me. "You're in our territory. Other vampires can't feed on our grounds; it would be theft punishable by, er, certain unwritten laws. Don't grin, I am being completely sincere."

"... So I _belong_ to you, eh?"

"This is why I don't tell you anything." He jabs the air in front of my face. "That's not a funny sentiment. I have seen slavery; it's not a comfortable lifestyle. I don't own you."

Fuck me, I can't help it. My grin cracks open, though I duck my head and nod to placate him. Then, like a Broadway Beastie charging from the ferns, I sing: "And DON'T tellmewhattowear, and DON'T, tell me what to say, and WHEN I go outatnight, DON'T put me on displaaaay! You don't own me, _nahnah n-nah, bada-daa_!"

"There aren't two rocks to rub together in that skull." Edward notes calmly enough, even as I loop one arm through his and he corrects our drunken waltz back to the path, shoving me gently forward so as to avoid flailing jazz-hands. I am singing like a fucking loon, but it's a good song and I should probably get all the Bette Midler out of my system before we reach our destination. The mania dissolved into laughing which faltered into hiccoughs each time I glanced over to see what expression he was wearing, punctured by the occasional phlegmy cough I would politely step aside to hock. For the most part we continued in silence, enjoying the noiseless surrounding (like walking with a goddamn t-rex for all the birds shut the hell up when we passed under their trees) or otherwise saving my breath for the exercise. I shifted the jacket to the other shoulder and fell back into step next to him.

"Are we there yet?"

"Yes, though we may still be too far away for _you_ to spot it."

"Whuh-" I paused, narrowed my eyes at the area ahead. Framework, covered in moss. The crisp architectural lines of a man-made structure. A very large house, gutted by fire some time ago. What trees surrounded it were only willowy saplings.

"The Smith residence." Edward's sarcasm was difficult for me to believe; his arms were crossed and I got the feeling he was withholding information lest I wax maniacal again. Perhaps to save the fabric from damage, or just to drive me absolutely fucking nutters, he tugs his longsleeve off before slipping in through the bramble and overgrowth. He's got a wifebeater as an undershirt, fraying my breath with that grunge look that watered down his immaculate features to keep him hot AND approachable! Be still, my slightly chaffing nethers.

So. Once more unto the fucking breach. Following the pale flash of bare shoulders and the glint of coppery hair and dear god you didn't have to read minds to know what this kinda thing was going to do to me... mercy kill, here and now, fucking deserve it, hnnngf. I fold my own jacket and hoodie over the charred porch rail as I navigate the drunk tilt of weathered stairs.

Some parts of the house had survived, whole sections of wall and many larger support timbers. A small breeze cuts through the thin fabric of my button-down, a brief tremor in my chest that could have either been from the cold or the sensation of a high threadcount against rather optimistically perked nipples. I felt exposed to the elements, there on the huge dilapidated porch with no sight or sound of Edward. The yawning gaps of paneless windows kept drawing my attention, like they'd swallow me if I turned my back.

Scared of a house, Charlie Brown, when there was a perfectly viable monster of the night within call? Tsk.

The clean brown interruption of Edward's sweater peeked out at me from the sagging doorway, draped over a stair rail within. A trail of clothing perhaps? Which would go next, the jeans or the wifebeater? Was Edward the kind of guy to lose his boxers before his shoes, or...? Yeah okay, not the best idea, daydreaming whilst navigating a condemned structure.

I found him still clothed (dammit), sitting at a vague mass of wood that I assumed was either a writing desk or one of those cheap old-timey pianos you'd find in western saloons, all draped in bawdy wenches. The way he caressed debris from the surface, though, told me it was a piano. The notes were sour, rusted and broken strings coughing powdery rasps as the felt of the hammers struck damp wood. Determination won out over convention, and soon Edward was plunking away at what few sad notes had been discovered with a semblance of musical know-how that surprised me. The only completely preserved note in the whole instrument was the very deepest, a smooth loud thrum that rattled the leaves in their moss cages and dislodged a pigeon from the rafters.

I scratched a cheek, scuffing my feet along the floorboards to make sure I didn't fall through into a wine cellar or anything as I crossed the room. Edward didn't glance up from the broken teeth of the keys as I approached to test my fingertips against the soft dead notes of wood and cork (or whatever the keydrums were made out of that had survived the damp as long as they had). He worked around me without pause or remark, looping an arm around my middle (holy shit) to better reach the keys that I was blocking, my hips pressed against the highboard. I could see why tavern whores liked to drape all over this thing when it was being played, like, good god _damn_. Edward's attention shifted bird-like and methodical as his eyes skipped along invisible lines of logic and form, shoulder jostling me occasionally while working to correct a melody or unstick a note before plunging back into the dissonance.

I fucked around with his concentration - plunking at notes that didn't fit just to see if he'd react, fascinated by the breathy laugh I felt once or twice as a cool puff of air at my shoulder. He settled dry, thin fingers over mine and - with impressive dignity considering just how gay this all really was - attempted to teach me the invented song. Half-mumbled instruction and corrections set my ear tingling. I stilled my hands under his, taking in a slow breath, wrestling to get the situation back under control.

I mean, this was not exactly my scene. I did not get romanced by shitty piano music in the middle of an abandoned McMansion-o-sentiment. I either scored or I didn't. It was simple. It was easy to understand. A clean transaction. This? This right here was complicated and not at all sexy. It should have been sexy; it should have been Demi Moore making pottery with Patrick Swayze in _Ghost_ sexy. No: mostly I was just too cold and too hot and knew all too well that this day's events would add up to fuckall in the long run.

And indeed it was going to be a very long, frustrating run.

Edward resumed the song without skipping a beat, sliding the pads of his fingertips further up the narrow ivory plates, muting the force of the keystroke. My hands curled into the warm space where the highboard met the tops of my jeans, hooking thumbs into belt-loops as I rocked steadily back on heel against that solid (taut, cold) arm. Studying his unwavering profile as the song stuttered and resumed, fell, slowed, died. He tapped one of the broken keys, adam's apple bobbing with a swallow, eyebrows risen slowly but still - still staring down and away. And what was the next move? A cough, an apology, a parting of individual fucking ways? Don't just fucking stand there like you accidentally tripped and got your peanut butter in my chocolate, fuck's sake.

He dodged the kiss, that motherfucker. I got maybe the tip of my nose to his cheek, and slowly at that, and he jerks his mouth out of reach, my jaw rolling against his as the advance was skillfully parried. The heel of my hand goes down hard against the piano with the shriek of ruined strings. I can't even choke out my own incredulity, mostly because I saw this coming a fucking mile away.

"Why'd you take the sweater off?" I meant it as a rhetorical question, a sort of 'why do you do this to me' protest. With any luck (and a lot of wheedling), I'd be able to convince him of his dormant desire to get blown by a certain pasty art aficionado who happened to be well-practiced at such things.

Edward's eyes, pupils large and lightless, widened as they finally met mine. His arm tensed behind me, voice flat despite the alarm and guilt in his expression. "To avoid bloodstains."

This. Took. A. Uh. Minute. To. Sink... In.

"_FUCK_!" I exploded away from the piano, stumbling into the rotting stair banister. My hand came free with a splintered baluster that I wielded like a club. "I _trusted_ you!" I rearranged my grip on the decaying wood, hoping to all hell it was sharp enough and strong enough for me to pull a Buffy on his creepy ass if I had to.

He remained at the piano, replacing long fingers to equally skeletal keytops, completely unimpressed as he pulled the song into the air between us. Was I over-reacting? Had he meant, like, animal bloodstains, or his own, or - ? Then - gone, the last deep thrumming note left to narrate my panic in the suddenly empty room. Something tickled my palm and I almost dropped the rotting makeshift weapon, fearing termite or spider or maggot or woodlice or what. It was just the prickle of my own sweat, remedied by furiously wiping both hands against my jeans and flaking off some of the softer bits of wood. The noise of their crumble to the floor was lost in the thundering hammer of my own heartbeat, and I tried to breathe evenly so I could better listen to my surroundings. Adrenaline was making me light-headed and twitchy.

Elbows raised like a batter at home base, I stepped through the front door.


	12. TWELVE

**: X :**

_Keep in mind I'm (vaguely, inexpertly) following the book;_  
_this involves putting every event through a kaleidoscope_  
_looking-glass warp. This here plot machine runs on nightmare_  
_fuel and gratuity, eyup. _

_Bernardo why do you insult your own narrative, THIS IS WHY_  
_WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS. _

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE: **Highwire

* * *

Cellphone was in my coat. I could call Carlisle and tattle about Edward's skipping probation, or my dad to tell him I love him and goodbye, or Old Bill Black to congratulate him on being one-hundred percent correct, or -

Edward knocked the banister from my grip as easily as flicking a bit of lint, crossing his arms expectantly even as the weapon clattered down the side of the house and tumbled noisily through tree branches. It hit the leafy ground with a wet _whump_ and I cringed, fingers curling over the air that it had occupied.

"What were you going to do with that just now, honestly? What _could_ you do?" Shaking his head and sighing through his nose, he brushed his hair roughly back, then scrubbed at his face with both hands. "What could you possibly hope to even - " a weak laugh.

I had an arm raised between us, palm facing out, floss braids stirring in a sudden wind that rattled bare tree branches and tickled a groan out of the old house. My shirt collar flipped up in the breeze and brushed my cheek and I flinched away from it. The sky was darkening, air musty with the promise of rain. Oh god. He was going to monologue, I could just fucking_ tell_.

"I am sorry. Please, just - I'm just trying to scare you." Well. Not a monologue, then, just a really awful prank. My terror curled in on itself, blossoming into anger. His laugh dries up. "It's a little too easy to forget myself around you, so I have to illustrate the point and explain why you can't just - you really have no idea how difficult it was for me, that first day you walked into my life, not to just leap across that crowd of _children_ and - "

"Crack me open like a cold beer?"

"Like a cold beer!" Bright teeth flash in another laugh, a lighthearted and entirely inappropriate sound that drove my scowl deeper. "No, I - no, you're right. I'm sorry." The smirk did not vanish. "You were going to run me through with that stake. I am damn near proud of you, Bernardo."

"Fuck you." It came out as a shudder, palms to my knees, sinking into a hard sit, collapsing backwards - limbs splayed just inside the front door, staring up at the growing clouds, trying to catch my breath. My joints ached after how tense I had been, shoulders throbbing against the cool damp beneath them. I didn't hear Edward move - never could - but he joined me on the floor without preamble and the _suddenness _of his presence startled me so bad I actually moaned and jerked sideways.

"Breathe." Edward's nose bumped my forehead; his legs stretched out toward the piano and hands folded neatly across his abdomen. We could totally do the _Spiderman_ kiss, had all preconceptions of romance not been sweated out of me in the past three minutes.

I reached over to dig my fingers into the rough mass of his hair, breathing as commanded, eyes sliding shut against the surreal vision of walls that opened roofless to a chaotic sky. "Next time I do something that bothers you, just fucking _say_ so. No more death threats."

He shifts against the reprimanding tug, settling us ear-to-ear. "You don't bother me."

"The fuck I don't. Each time I make a move, you make damn sure to try and scare the everloving _shit_ out of me, Edward."

"For your own preservation."

"For _your_ own preservation, maybe."

"One of us has to exercise self-control."

"I'm not fucking talking about the vampire thing." The back of my hand falls to the hard wood floor, and I laboriously drag myself up to my elbows. "Because it doesn't matter if you kill me or scare me away permanently or whatever - when I'm gone, it's not going to _change_ anything." Twisted myself over so that both elbows were on either side of his head, looming over his stupid calm face. "You'll still have to live with the fact that you are both a coward, and an incurable faggot." I pick myself up and dust off without hurry, pacing out across the porch to grab my hoodie and pull it on. It was damp from the wood, and smelled of mold. I turned, jacket in hand, nearly knocking skulls with Edward as he blocked my retreat.

"You have no idea what it was like, the first day I saw you - "

"The first day you saw me, we fucking played eyeball patty-cake across the lunchroom. My Gaydar ain't broken, buddy; it's _nuclear submarine_ class."

I can't even quote the 'shut up' that Edward delivered. It was quipped, loud but fast, exasperated and angry and sad and scared and there was just no putting into words the _noise_ of it. The sound cut my breath in half. So I shut up, and waited in terse anticipation while Edward got his shit in order.

"This is ridiculous. I should have just left town at the onset."

Half of me wanted to agree, the other half thought he was being a pussy and didn't want to see him give up so easily. Neither half interjected. I pulled slow arms through the coat sleeves, keen to occupy myself and give him a little less limelight to sweat under.

"I almost did leave, you know, but giving in to fear was the equivalent of giving in to any other impulse - on par with outright killing you; and why should your presence scare me away? Away from _my_ town and family, from what Carlisle had worked so hard to build and Esme kept so painstakingly glued together? It would have been so easy, Bernardo, there in that small ambulance with its single impressionable witness. I could have even done it in the hospital, at Carlisle's discretion."

I scuffed the toe of my sneaker against a protruding knot in the floorboard. My chest gave an extra painful little squeeze and I looked away, distant mumble of thunder interrupting his confession. "Alice said something about you and Jasper." I offered, subdued. "She too admitted that I'm, like, prime vampire bait. Is that the only reason for your bloodlust, I mean, like, literally?"

"Yes, and that reason is so much more than common appetite. It's - how do I explain this without giving you the wrong idea..."

"Be blunt." I cut off the urge to add 'you dumb bitchy princess', seeing as he was in the middle of explaining seven different ways from Sunday how I could have been gruesomely murdered and miraculously wasn't because of... well, he hadn't gotten to that part yet.

He contemplates the trees over my shoulder before pulling in a deep breath. "A recovering alcoholic can turn down stale beer, easily. Now, set the finest glass of rare, hundred year-old cognac in front of him, and tell him that he could very easily cover up the evidence of having imbibed, of having fallen off the wagon just that once. Now imagine the alcoholic has only recently practiced abstaining, and even when he was hitting every pub for a thousand square miles he never had run across so fine a spirit."

"So, what's the catch for the alcoholic?"

"Other than the worst hangover imaginable? Nothing, and that's my point. The world would be down one glass of rare brandy, but keep turning just as it always had. Oh, also, the cognac follows the alcoholic around, and even presses itself to his lips when he's not keeping his guard up."

My neck and ears prickle with heat, the extra layers of sweater and jacket at once too stifling.

Edward inclines his head, crossing his arms at his waist and stepping closer. "The drink fills every room with its warm aroma, tugs at his attention and laces heat through his veins, like good brandy should. Now, for Jasper - " He raises a finger to his bottom lip and I could breathe a little easier that the topic had been sidelined. "Every human being is fine cognac. To me, you're the only good liquor in a sea of stale beer."

One half of my mouth twists up and I nod a thanks, shoulders hunching up in modesty. "So if I didn't smell like the world's best godamn brandy, we could make out?"

Edward snorts, takes a step back to evaluate me from head to toe. "I... don't know if that's something I ever really considered." He palms the back of his neck and is avoiding eye contact; haha, liar.

"Oh, come on. What with me sloshing metaphorical brandy down your chin, you never once considered why you didn't just haul off?"

"Haul off and what, exactly? Carlisle spoke on behalf of us all when he entreated with Ephraim for the safety of the inhabitants in this region."

"Yeah yeah, I know all that. Buuut - " I drawl, going in for the kill. "You didn't, and _don't_, have to leave town just to avoid me."

"I couldn't just - " His expression darkens as the thunder skips closer, the pop-flash of lightning preceding some distance off through the trees. "The last time my family revealed itself to others, their own home was set on fire around them."

"Bummer! I'm not Ephraim." Yeah, harsh. "I'm also guessing nobody died, though, and if that was what it had taken to get some sort of treatise then I'm going to have to side with the home team on this one. We don't have the luxury of mind-reading, or the curse of it or whatever, so it's a tough fucking _mortal_ life." I lean a hip against the porch rail, think better of it as the wood groans and gives way, tottering back up into a stand. Edward had stepped forward to assist, and I laughed and held up my arm between us, shaking off his loose grip. "See? Right there. I think you need to put on your big-boy sweatervest and come to terms with this." 'This' I illustrated by touching first his chest, and then my own. I wasn't wrong. I couldn't be. If I was wrong then, shit, I _deserved_ to be stranded two miles in the wilderness in the middle of a storm.

Edward? Looks like he's considering that very idea. "This isn't easy for me."

I roll my eyes in relief. "I know. 'S not exactly a cakewalk over h - " His fingertips are so light against my mouth that it takes every single mature adult cell in my body to march up to my brain and put the brakes on my intent to lick him.

"I don't know what to _do_ about you. I figure scaring you away might make things easier, but I actually _crave_ your company. I feel all the more colder for having once felt heat and it's as if - I don't know if I'm hungry or - "

"Horny?"

He shrugs, but concedes my point with a generous sweep of a hand. "Keep in mind we don't view the world the same way you do, aren't prone to its hardships or pleasures." He skips a beat, and if there was any blood in those cheeks I bet it would have shown itself. "I can still my thoughts when you're in the room; if I focus on just hearing you then the world is quieted. It is absolute fucking bliss." He laughs, surprised at his own profanity or at the undertones of such a confession.

My pulse is roaring in time with the approaching storm and beats all the harder that I knew that he could hear it.

"And you keep yourself so close! All the time! Most people shy away from us, from our strangeness, but you're always so near that I think I might forget myself one day and - " A low growl, fists unclenching on either side of my face without coming into contact.

My stomach gave a little lurch of interest - damn you mainstream horror films and your fucking sexy subplots. He was talking about death and cannibalism, not sex and a public ass-grab or two. "You've done great so far. Not eating me."

A scoff. The rain approached, a noisy drizzle. "Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if I had, that first day, taken you out of my life one way or the other. I wouldn't have to struggle so hard now." He steps into the slanted doorway, sheltered from the heavy, sluggish roll of rain. "I only wonder why you linger in my company, since mere curiosity couldn't possibly be worth the risk." He is strangely aloof, pulling the layers back over himself lest my snark hook a little too deep.

"The fuck it ain't!" I joined him under the eave, avoiding eye contact because I was still pretty pissed at this whole run-around situation. I take a breath, half-start a word, catch his eye and fall short. "The world is a bigger place with you in it." A sharp knob of brass that used to connect the door's hinge was prodding into my back and I shifted to avoid it, crossing my arms behind me to keep myself propped away from its snare.

"What could you possibly mean by that?"

"What do you think it means?" I throw back, expression twisting down. "I was over this scene a week ago, Edward; either kill me or fuck me or don't do anything. I don't fucking _care_."

His eyebrows are in his hairline, but he's smiling in a gentle, placating sort of way so maybe he's gotten the hint that my ego was properly quelled, if not outright mown down like a blind raccoon on the I-10. "I want to be close to you, Bernardo, but I don't want you to think I'm plotting anything lecherous."

"Who even _talks_ like that?" I groan, falling forward to bury my head in his shoulder, arms left dangling down between us. His bare skin is smooth and chilly, the pristine white fabric of the tanktop damp and thin. "I want to do lecherous things with you, but I don't want you to think that I'm plotting anything just to be_ close_." I mock, shivering as his fingers slide up and clasp around the back of my neck. I ache from the center of my knees all the way up to the knot in my shoulders, the feeling compounded by the thunder that rocks into the air between us and sends my balls tucking up. My head is still ringing from the sound when I catch the tail-end of Edward's words.

" - difficult it must be for you, all filled up with chemicals tugging you this way and that."

"Fffuck you and the doomsday horse you rode in on." I lean into him harder, locking my chest against his, breathing in deep. The storm muffles all sound, voices, the rasp of fingers through hair. "Can't act like you were never seventeen and in love." It slips out in the safety of the downpour's hungry jaws, swallowing all noise. I didn't mean to say 'in love', I meant to say something like 'young and willing' or other old quote. Shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_.

"Human instinct might be buried deep within us, but it still lingers. I can't claim to sympathize with you, Bernardo, I really can't; but you _are_ important to me and I could probably stand to make a few concessions in light of that fact." He doesn't have to yell over the rush of the downpour; I could hear his voice through the hollow of his chest. "To your suggestion; I've never been in love, no. I wonder if I should be glad of that fact, if it feels anything like this. How can you even _stand_ it?"

Ooookay, so suddenly we're declaring ourselves. Shit. My mind was a blank. I shrugged away from the hard chest. _Shit_.

"You're getting wet."

Grasping feebly for something to latch onto, some track with which to align my derailed panic. I grinned weakly, head thunking back against the doorframe. "Wrong gender, pally, but correct line of thought."

Edward tilts his chin to the side, swear to god, just like that confused golden retriever puppy in any commercial ever. But then he narrows his eyes, perhaps in distaste. The guy is a prude but not naive, and probably doesn't appreciate my ruination of our supposedly tender moment. "Is that going to be a problem? I mean, we can't exactly wait here while the house falls down around us."

I don't know if he's being sarcastic or practical, but I'm not about to waste the opportunity so long as he was making 'concessions'. The eyebrow goes up, the grin corrects itself. "You could bl-" a particularly vicious crack of hot lightning through cold sky directly overhead sends me reeling back from the door, hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket as I shrugged it close. I hover to Edward's side, proposition left unspoken while my heartbeat rabbited itself to the dull ache of overuse. Our eyes meet, wide scared blue to calm flat green. He could blow me, or we could just get the fuck out of the forest already.

"Come along, little coward." He smiles distantly, offering a hand.

"Fuck you - my grandpa died from a lightning strike." I grasp it by sheer reflex, and am swung over his shoulders like a cape, hands clasping at the dip of his sternum and chin digging into the side of his neck.

"Sorry to hear that. Legs." He prompts, hefting my bulk easily and holding his palms to his sides expectantly.

"What, you're going to fucking _carry_ me?" Quickly, grab a thesaurus and find me a word that means both 'amused' and 'insulted'. I can wait. "I wasn't kidding about the half-chub, y'know." The rain intrudes down my collar, made all the colder by the wind and the dead body to which I clung, so it wasn't exactly going to be a problem for _long_... just a vague discomfort I didn't want to jostle about or encourage.

Edward tugs at one of my hands, but keeps the other pinned tightly to his chest. "It's fine." He breathes, nosing against my palm and wrist and effectively turning my joints to water. Well! Where the fuck did _that _come from? (Either that was thunder, or the sound of Edward Cullen's balls finally dropping.)

"Not helping." I choke out against his shoulder, trying to loosen his grip while my toes dangle in a bare scrape against the woodwork. "Just gimme a moment; I'll be fine." He didn't budge or protest, tightening his fist over mine when the lightning cracked too close. Once the cold had chased any semblance of arousal from my veins, I cautiously brought my knees up to clamp against his ribs. Definitely having some colorful fucking dreams about this later. Ha! See what I did there? 'Fucking dreams', indeed.

I'm awesome. This is awesome. Everything's awesome.

"Keep your head, hands, arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times."

"Did you seriously just say that?"

A shrug, the roll of steely muscle beneath my grip (hnngh). "You feel... scared."

No, I probably felt aroused, and _then_ scared. The two like to intermingle, for Freudian reasons I'd rather not mention. "I've seen you move before, remember? I don't want to be plastered to a tree like a fucking windshield bug."

"Hah." I think I like it when he's being a jerk, at least his sense of humor improves. "If you don't trust your own grip..." Iron hands slide behind my knees and pull me snug against his waist. My arms are deftly rearranged so that I can grab each elbow, a position that would have choked anyone who had need of air. He didn't start out slow, and I think that could have made all the difference, but as soon as I tucked my face into his neck (to escape the rain when he stepped off the porch) we were off at a smooth jettison.

I would eventually crack one eye open, not that it mattered - mottles of brackish green and brown streaks were my only reward for one helluva windburnt eyeball. What had taken us until mid-day to travel took Edward a mere couple of minutes, and I guessed that was just his way of restraining himself to keep my brains from being liquefied. (Two miles in two minutes... 60mph, if you hadn't figured it out yourself. That's like riding on top of a car in the slow lane of the highway, which sounds like no big deal but you go ahead and try it and get back to me.

Oh, and it's raining.

Fuckers.)

You'd think with all that speed he could have dodged the raindrops as they fell, but no - we were both properly soaked by the time Clifford's bright red washed itself into the pass of color. At least his stop wasn't as abrupt as the start, saving my squishy mortal innards from what would have equated a vehicular collision; think brick wall wrap-around going sixty. We circled my truck and the rain began to sting a little less and I could even pick my head up and enjoy the dream that every aspiring gay biker has: to one day ride a motorcycle that is actually a hot guy in a wifebeater.

The run seemed to have put Edward in a better mood, at least. He helped unwrap my cramped and heavy limbs and even kept me upright, out of the mud. "Now tell me that wasn't fun."

"That wasn't fun." I obliged, doubling over to rest shaking hands on unsteady knees.

"Perhaps if you weren't so colossally - " The ground disappears from under me, rain pelting my face as it seems I have been lifted, plucked up like a fainting woman; dear readers you can't make this kinda shit up. " - out of _shape_, it wouldn't have taken half the day to get there and we wouldn't have had to rush back."

I am in the truck. Edward. Edward is in the truck, behind the wheel. Magically, the heel of my hand meets the side of his head. "Give 'em back."

"You can hardly stand." He is annoyed, perhaps by my physical retaliation, but, I mean, nnnh!

I drag the heavy fabric of my soaked jacket off, though my limbs are shaking from the effort and the world has yet to stop reeling. "You do not, I repeat, do NOT drive another man's car without his permission - and honestly you have _got_ to kick this pick-pocketing habit - and so help me _god_ it will come to fisticuffs between us if you ever use the word 'colossal' anywhere near reference to my _shape_." I collapse across the seat, fishing an errant belt out from under my back and tucking my knees up against the passenger door.

"Have I permission to drive your truck, Bernardo?"

"Get bent," I croak, forearm over my eyes to shut out the spinning world.

"You have to admit that even were you not impaired, I have better reflexes on the whole. It's just safer this way. For you."

I groan and turn my face into the heady fragrance of the backrest. "The only thing colossal about me is a metaphor involving my _cajones_."

"Very nice." The tug of a seatbelt loops its way across my middle.

I was about to growl a further threat, but... "If you have such great reflexes, why didn't you avoid the smack?"

The engine turns over with a wet cough. "I deserved it. For scaring you, earlier, not for pointing out that you smoke more than you jog."


	13. THIRTEEN

**: X :**

_Lemony fresh. DARK. I don't even know the proper_  
_letters for this... DE? AU? AH? OOC? BGS? BBQ?_  
_RPGOMGWTF? TTYL? GTFO?_

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**: Concessions

* * *

Raindrops drummed relentlessly across the windshield, the shadow of the wiper blades sweeping across my vision as we bounced along the pitted dirt road. There was a heavy silence, broken finally by my hearty laughter. "I kinda _like_ it when you're being an asshole. Suits you better than the holier-than-thou attitude you normally carry around." I blink up from the seat, no longer ill so much as just extremely wired and giddy and freezing and soaked and I felt the truck turning before we could have possibly made it out of the road so that meant I'd be getting some vampire fukken hospitality soon and everything was great. Not good, not perfect, just great.

Edward's jaw tightens. "Funny enough, my siblings say the exact same thing. I don't attempt to be sanctimonious, but I'm glad you approve of the verbal abuse."

"See? That right there, that sarcasm? That's fucking hot." The guy can't ever take a compliment gracefully, though, and is silent as I unbuckle myself and sit up to survey the approach to Le Maison De La Wampyr. "Your siblings won't be pissed that you're bringing home a half-drowned Charlie for a set of dry clothes, will they?"

"Not that it would matter, but it's unusual for any of us to spend the weekend at home. Twelve hours each night in one another's company is more than enough, especially after the first decade of routine." He bit his lip, gunning Clifford's engine. "We'll be lucky if Rosie's home, unlucky if it's anybody else."

"What, really? Always got the impression Rosalie ain't a fan of mine."

"Exactly. She'd leave."

I - okay, yeah, he probably only meant, like, in reference to the preservation of my health or whatever. OR MAYBE he meant he hoped the house would be _empty_. So we could be _alone_. Hehehe. That chuckle earned an apprehensive glance. Oh, right, virgin with a capital V over there, always telling me not to get the wrong idea. The remedy? Ask a lot of filler questions so he only has himself to blame when I draw the wrong conclusion A GO.

"Anybody besides Jasper I should be extra careful around, just in case?"

"Mmnh. Carlisle's the strongest of us in that regard, and has worked the longest to be so. Rose has only run across her own rare glass of cognac once, and he was already bleeding out from a previous attack - bear, if that explains anything. She hauled Emmet I don't know how many miles to Carlisle's aid because she knew she wouldn't be able to control herself long enough to change him." He smiles fondly, like ho-hum just casually recounting this funny story of how Rosalie met Emmet and almost finished what a bear started, ha-_haa_, knee-slapper.

"Alice freely admits to giving in to temptation when it's that strong, but she has... ah, picky tastes. Esme is more likely to flee from such a situation, and I'm beginning to see the same pattern in Jasper, though it's not the best way to handle the hunger. Sometimes your own limbs can disobey you, make you believe you're running away from a mark when you're really circling back to it." He darts a look over his shoulder at me. "This isn't making you uncomfortable?"

"The twin lakes in my shoes are making me uncomfortable. Do you always make sure your house is as far from the road as possible?"

"Each time we parade around as a normal family, yes. Rather difficult explaining lights burning all hours of the night, or an empty house every day, or a kitchen without food. Unfortunately the Cullen family has to have a reputation as unsocial workaholics, which is easier to portray now than it ever was, believe me."

I made a non-committal grunt and leaned eagerly forward in my seat as we trundled down the sparkling white granite side-road; canopy of gnarled oak and patchy sycamore forming a dark tunnel around us and turning the rain into fat, infrequent splatters.

"I suppose it's also this model's revealing design. We went with Esme's favorite architecture and it turned out to be a bit, eh, modern." Was that a hint of stuffy disapproval I detected? I was beginning to really fucking love this version of Edward: snarkier, gayer, more forthcoming all round. And didn't he feel better, letting all the cattiness out? Stretching his limbs and indulging in the interior design debate and everything.

I had forgotten the plan to back him into a conversational corner and was just grinning, stupidly, relishing his sheer woobiness. So it was that I did not see the SUV until it was past us, grinding to a halt and skidding down the gravel drive. Edward calmly pulled Clifford aside, rolling down his window as the black monstrosity spun into reverse and approached.

"Getting rid of the ev - " Emmet's square face grinned out from under a pair of Giovanni sunglasses, but froze mid-guffaw. "Jesus, Ed, you know how Esme feels about bringing junkfood home."

My insides went cold, Clifford's door was open, the seat empty; Emmet's SUV was on its side, in the ditch, a polite British robot lady telling me that the passenger's side door was left ajar and nobody had buckled their seatbelts yet. I blinked, attention diverted by the smooth angular planes of the Cullen residence up ahead. Yeah, that... that was pretty modern. An expansive split-level built into an odd shape to accommodate the huge (probably very old) trees surrounding it, the second level's outer walls made of glass and burnished steel. All rounded edges and eco-design with domed roofing. Probably extremely high-tech.

"Sorry you had to see that." Edward rejoins me and pulls his door shut, tilting his jaw up briefly to crack a kink out of his neck.

I twist in my seat to peer through the back window as Clifford lurches forward toward the smooth pavement of the Cullens' driveway, catching the hint of a bulky form staggering into the roadside. "Did you just kick his ass?" I dispassionately flash Emmet the bird as he grimaces in our direction.

Edward shrugs modestly. "He _is_ my much younger brother. That doesn't mean you should take any liberties - the only two times Emmet chanced across his favorite brand of liquor, he couldn't control himself. They were strangers, and he was still new to our family, but I'd rather you not treat any of my siblings with casual regard. For my sake." My hand is snatched up at this last plead. "I'd rather not have to kill either of my brothers."

WOAH. I swallow, nodding, edging out of the damp warm cab even before the truck has come to a complete stop, deftly catching the keys as they came sailing over the driveway. Edward grins lopsidedly as he steps through the thick glass double-doors, tugging me forward over the threshold. I had hesitated right there on the patio, feeling too wet and grubby and _mortal_ to step into that magnificent, pristine structure.

"You don't have to be afraid. There's nobody here."

Misinterpretation of my fears, but the information was good to have. "You keep the thermostat on? Have running water and everything?" My shoes squelched as I pulled them off in the atrium, the noise louder in the unfurnished space.

"Of course. We have to pay the proper amount of gas and electricity billing as anyone with this size household. Cutting corners would look suspicious, and it's never a bad thing to have the luxuries on hand." The main level was eclectic, dark stone flooring and slate walls in the atrium and kitchen, polished cherry wood floors for the sitting room (the fireplace was made from the same stone as the floors), spotless white carpeting for all else. And this was just the front of the house, just the lobby of the epic woodland resort parading as a mere _home_.

"This is... great. Don't suppose I could bargain for a shower?" The place smelled like furniture polish and grandmotherly potpourri, exaggerating my woodland and fear-sweat aroma. The walls were a warm eggshell behind the collection of what I assumed was family history; framed paintings and photos, gilded excerpts behind glass paneling, statues and animal busts and newspaper articles dating back to the invention of the newspaper and -

"Were you going to take that shower or just drip all over the wainscoting?" Edward appears beside me, and it's almost gotten to the point that his speed is no longer surprising. He grasps my elbow with a small tug, our hands dropping together - as if we'd walked clasping palms all the damn time - while I follow on bare feet. "You can have a tour of the museum once you're no longer at risk of pneumonia."

I lace our fingers together - blunt and calloused meets tapered and skeletal. We cross the 'main lounge' to the kitchen, and further still into a dark hallway that leads to one of the more abstract rooms. "There isn't any wainscoting in this house, and if there was it'd be on the walls, not the floor."

"Dammit Jim I'm a doctor, not an architect."

I stumble on the split-level stair mount, shaking so hard with laughter that my fucking coordination has been compromised. Here the walls are mostly glass, opening up into a yawning untamed forest-scape. Edward steps down to join me on the stair, pulling my chin up while I try to sober. I am unsuccessful, face crinkling up in a smile even under scrutiny. "Hahaha, man, I can't believe you just quoted - fecking - _Star Trek_."

"You should laugh more often."

"You should _joke_ more often. Leggo, that just caught me by surprise is all."

"Home is the one place that we don't have to pretend." He finally gave way to the urgency in my hands and let me have my face back. I rubbed my jaw, scowling after as he led the way across the empty room to a spiral wrought-iron staircase.

"Pretend what? Not to actually pay attention to the popular culture of the age?"

He shrugged, starting up the stairs without glancing back. "Just pretend."

Oooh, I doth espy an opportunity as wide as these here fucking bay windows, and crest the stairs with my shirt already halfway unbuttoned. The damp hoodie is shed at the door as I step into what could only appropriately be referred to as Edward's loft apartment. He shared a glass wall with this side of the house, but the other three were opaque and lined with bookshelves, CD stacking cases, a stereo system he probably commissioned Russian space engineers to build, and one lone black leather couch. The charcoal gray carpeting set off the burnished brass of the shelving excellently, and behind all that audio entertainment the walls were painted a neon sky blue.

Seventeen forever, and not even kidding.

To the far wall was a walk-in closet of indeterminable size, and beside that the open door of a washroom. Edward appeared through one door and disappeared into the next, the rake of clothing hangers against their perch unmistakable. Okay, so my jeans were pretty heavy and uncomfortably wet and falling off my hips anyway, but would it be way too early to just de-pants in the middle of his room? My heart rate had suffered so much lately but now it beat fast and steady in a _good_ way and the ache wasn't from tension or fear, but the distance of a single room between us. Heavy denim fabric kept me glued in place, and I couldn't just shuck it off.

"Don't move." Edward's hand was at the side of my neck, thunder cracking in the distance.

_Fuck_, what was it this time? Of course my first instinct was to move, if only to search out his face in the late afternoon gloom. This was reprimanded, Edward's hands sliding up to cup my jaw and keep me firmly in place.

"I... misjudged the area of effect. Just, ah, stay still a moment." His voice was pleading, but his eyes were dark and narrow.

"You're kinda squishing my face."

His hands slid down around my neck; nnnot an improvement, even IF my dick gave a little twitch of interest under all that cold denim. Last time I'd had a set of hands around my neck I had - and then -

"Don't be afraid."

Oh god, 'afraid' wasn't entirely the - I mouthed _fuck_, biting my bottom lip as my head titled back and eyes slid shut, cold rotting breath sliding across a cheek and ear and every cell screamed _yes_ and he hadn't even - yet - like we were in a gutted house and he was going to spill me so bad that he didn't want to get it on his sweater and I was _ready_ for that, so ready that I still had half a boner over the idea of fucking around with a fucking lunatic murdering predator that had already broken into my house and killed a man whose cum and blood splatters I couldn't ever wash off and _fuck_ -

"Shhh..." Edward's hands smooth over my shoulders and back up to my neck in a slow caress, dislodging the button-down. I was glad he couldn't read my mind; would probably terrify him.

But his thumb circles just under the bump of my adam's apple and a moan leaks out and _oh shit _- the brush of rigid cold lips against mine and my limbs are electrified into action, hands twisting up into coarse messy hair and I don't give a fuck if he's hungry or not I am _starving_ - his mouth is cool and wet and tastes like rusty rainwater. I'm tugged away by the back of the neck, sensation rocketing down my spine so that my knees buckle and the steely grip is the only thing keeping us from ending up a pile of limbs on the carpet.

"I could break you in half."

I laugh wetly, cracking an eye and squirming to get my feet under me. "I look forward to it."

"Bernardo, _stop it_. I could kill you." His hands gentle on my shoulders, forehead pressed down against my chest and I have to take a step back to support his weight.

"You won't."

"If I lost control for even a moment - "

"So don't."

"I could never forgive myself - "

"Bite down on the headboard or something, for fuck's sake." I am tugging ineffectually at his tanktop when he kneels, wrapping both arms around my waist. I peel my shirt out from between us and over my head, hips jerking forward when he buries his face into my stomach and _bites_ -

- against thin air, teeth clacking wetly into the terse silence. He's shaking his head unevenly, eyes screwed shut, a silent snarl that drags across the fevered skin of my stomach. My whole body flinches back, dick heavy and pulsing in its confines. Jesus fucking christ, I'm going to die; and it's going to be fucking _amazing_.

"Don't run." Edward quips, clawing across my ribs and ass. "When I let you go, walk slowly into the bathroom. If you run, the chase instinct will - I don't know. Please."

When he drops his grasp, every footstep is like waking up and falling asleep all over again. The bright beacon of the washroom's light turns into an unbearable glare and I close the door discreetly after myself. It's someone else who starts up the shower, someone else's mild frustration with newfangled temperature controls and someone else's pale, irritated skin reflecting moist and unlovely in the mirrored walls. I come crashing back into my senses under the hot spray, blowing a load against shining white tile that flash like too many sharp teeth.

I wasn't even fucking myself off, both arms folded against the cold tiles to cushion my forehead as my hips rocked forward and sought retribution for sleepless nights and stifled need. I used to get off on dating the quintessential bad boy, then graduated to affairs with authority figures both married and innocent, the occasional random stranger just to keep life interesting, and now I was stuck on murderers and monsters and trapped with no way back down that fucking nightmare ladder.

And it was _so good_, the trickle of water down my back soothing out the afternoon's strain while my dick ached and twitched and brought the orgasm all the harder for my negligence. At this point I'm not sure what would have been better, actually fucking Edward or actually dying, but I knew I couldn't have had one without the other and felt all the worse being denied both.

Is that fucked up? I liked living. I reached down to pull off the last of the orgasm and took in a deep, shuddering breath. No, yeah, I didn't want to die. That was ridiculous. That was bullshit. Who thought like that, anyway? Someone way too hard up for action, that's who. That was all.

Yeah, sure.

Fuck.

* * *

"It won't be that hard again."

I glance up from the paperback I was pretending to browse, eyes wide and innocent though the smile below them is trying to betray me. Edward's t-shirt and sweats pyjama ensemble was loose and comfortable, but his couch would be a shitty substitute for a bed because the leather kept sticking to whatever skin it touched.

Like a champ, Edward is unruffled and fully clothed (though I am disappointed to see the return of the dress-casual slacks and sweater). "I'm stronger than I thought. It's nice to know."

"Was that very hard for you?" Dear god, if he was actually clueless to the innuendo...

"Like I said, I won't have to struggle so in the future. The more I'm near you the more desensitized I become." He pauses, fingering an errant CD case back into its assigned shelf. "You seem... unscathed."

"Had a wank in the shower. I feel _excellent_." My clothes had disappeared somewhere into the mysterious depths of the Cullen household, to whichever room that held the laundry equipment. A house so large that you couldn't hear the dryer running: miracle of science! So I wasn't going anywhere any time soon and thought the better of it to make use of this time by being as direct as fucking possible. When Edward didn't further the conversation, I plowed ahead. "Are _you_ okay? I admit I can be kinda - "

"Reckless?"

"I prefer 'intense', but welcome to the conversation. Anyway, sorry if I, you know, offended your delicate sensibilities."

"You're only human." He joins me on the couch, much closer than I'm used to him sitting: a definite bonus.

"Aha, yes, 'only'. Hnn. So now you're, what, better equipped to deal with my untoward advances? How does that work?" I sidle so that we're hip-to-hip, even though he's a distant cold through the layers of clothing between us. Right then I could probably use more cooling off than cozying up, anyway, har har.

"You surprised me, is all. I hadn't anticipated that when you removed your jacket you'd be so... accessible. And here I had let my every guard down, but look..." A arm slides between me and the couch, Edward inhaling deep at my neck. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" The disappointment, it just slips out.

His smile is reassuring, but wounded. "It is either a great love for me or a very great hatred for yourself that sends you so quickly into the bed of a monster."

Zing. Well, ninety-plus years didn't exactly amount to zero in the introspection department, even if he couldn't read my mind. I still had the option of lying! "I don't know what you mean, Edward, I fucking love myself. Me, here, still breathing, it's great. I'm just bummed, you know, in the usual fashion. That you don't get to, like, feel how I feel." Hey, that was almost convincing.

"I think I can sympathize with you on this matter a little more than I previously supposed. I don't want to attack you; this is a totally different kind of hunger. It's so unusual and I don't even know how to quell it."

"Oh, you can't quell it. You can bed it down for the night but it'll perk back up at the most inopportune moments." I chuckle, kneeling up to loom beside Edward to try and chase a kiss out of him. He doesn't flee, but pulls back when open-mouth pecking starts to involve tongue. "Feeling it?" I rasp against his cheek.

"Just because I've never done this doesn't mean I don't know _how_." It takes me a minute to interpret this claim, but by then he's tumbled me off the couch. "Your pulse does not change - " He's crouching over me, but not touching - is he mad at me? He sounds mad at me. " - unless you're being intimidated in some way. Just something I've noticed, Bernardo." Fucking century-old introspection skills. And yes, my heartrate was plodding along nicely until he dumped me to the floor and said something kinda mean and _not _ touching me and sounding all angry and hnnngf okay endgame, I am fucked up.

I reiterate, for the audience. "I'm just... fucked up."

And Edward? Beautiful, snarky, closety head-case, short tempered Edward? "Join the club."

Best. Monster. Boyfriend. Ever.


	14. FOURTEEN

**: X :**

I realize this rewrite has _a lot of filler_, but so  
did the original. Ha_haa_.

In the meantime: sound off if you're still with  
us. I need to do a headcount.**  
**

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN:** Mind Over Matter

* * *

I was a Bernardo-shaped stain in the sea of dark, plush carpeting. Felt like I was sinking into the floor, head buzzing with every new fucking possibility stretching into the future. Vampire boyfriend: still a pretty heavy concept, man. We could _rob banks_. Live out the ultimate action movie adventures, vigorous post-mission fucking and all. Donate the bank job money to whatever charity because fuck it, vampires don't need money.

Oh my fuck, we could go all vigilante justice in some big city, no, in ALL BIG CITIES. Pretty fitting origins story; the son of a Sheriff gets a righteous fire lit all up under the ass of a superhuman creature of the night. Let's just face it, I'd be the side-kick in that one. Sexy fucking journalist side-kick, like, bandaging up gunshot wounds and hunting up new cases all the while sporting some trendy as fuck trenchcoat and stubble. Fucking… _yesssss_.

Edward has joined my musing on the floor, probably just enjoying the fact that he couldn't hear my inane head-babble - since that seemed to be both a huge relief and the source of his interest/tolerance/big dumb excuse for latent attraction to yours truly. He stretched out on his back in a familiar position, legs sprawled the opposite direction of mine, ears nearly touching while we contemplated the scalloped ceiling, a few fingers grazing against my neck. I could feel my own pulse throb against the back of chill knuckles, dazed that it had gotten this far and I hadn't even had to resort to flowers or roadkill or whatever it is you're supposed to use to court a vampire.

"William Masen was my father; he died in 1906. I was five. He was a member of Chicago's volunteer Fire Brigade; disasters like that were common before asbestos. A bad way to go."

I start out of the reverie, pulling the borrowed t-shirt straight. "Well, I mean at least that's kinda..."

"Heroic for an accountant? Yes. We lived frugally and unhappily until the Spanish Influenza struck much of the city and claimed my mother's life. My life as well, technically. Carlisle was a doctor by then, 1918. I was seventeen, and too distracted by pain and delirium to make much of a case on my own behalf. I know I wanted to live. I know my mother wanted me to live, and to become a virtuous man like my father."

"So, what, Carlisle infected you because you were the most wholesome fever-ravaged teen in the city? Like a fucked up Miss America Pageant?"

A scoff. "Closer to the mark than you think. I was probably the most moral candidate, the least likely to go on a hedonistic feeding spree and there was no promise that I'd even survive the original infection, much less a vampiric contribution. Though I think, in the end, Carlisle acted from loneliness as much as he did from pity." I let him reflect in peace for a moment. "She begged him, my mother did. Don't think he would have bothered if all three hadn't come into play; the pity and the loneliness and the guilt."

"… Wow. So you were alive for like the Prohibition and Depression and Dust-bowl and all that shit?"

"Not technically _alive_, no. I had no real solid awareness of what was going on in the world around me, moving by night and having lost all interest in things like newspapers and property ownership and governmental control over the use of alcohol. Glimpses of lives when I fed, a piecemeal illustration of the times as they were. You'd be surprised how much of the same worries occupy peoples' minds today as they did back then. Food, sex. Mortgage payment a distant cousin to the primal, more intimate things that fill the waking thoughts of humanity. Faces, voices, small anxieties of who loves whom more, do they smell right, are their teeth perfect, did that joke make her uncomfortable, all that and not a single broadcast the likes of 'This is Depression Era America and It Sucks'."

"Livin' in your own nocturnal bubble."

"Yes. But around the fifties, even small towns began to take the night for themselves, which made hunting more difficult and bled a little humanity back into us monsters who had no experience with soda fountains and ice-cream socials and the marvel that was the drive-in movie."

"You had the rest of your family by then, though, right?"

"Mmhm." His knuckles, warmed slightly by own body heat, began an idle caress that took every scrap of tactful willpower to ignore in light of the topic at hand. "Esme had been created a few months after me… To complete the sort of broken family we had, since I was unmanageable. I think Carlisle had help; other vampires, perhaps even his patrons. Despite her nature, Esme too had to suffer the early stages of adapting to a life built solely on instinct. It was taking on more than he could handle in the attempt to fix whatever went wrong with me."

"What went wrong?"

A scoff. "I was a teenager. I spat on his philosophy and resented everything and everyone. Killed a lot of people; 'bad guys' whose thoughts betrayed their worthlessness." The bitter tone of voice crept in through our quiet dialogue, cold and flinty. "After a while all those poisonous thoughts started to build up. I was afraid of becoming what I ate, and rejoined Carlisle mid 1950s. This time, to try and keep me around, he brought Rosalie into our family."

"What the fuck."

"Pretty much my reaction at the time, though nobody could fault her for hunting down those who had wronged her. Carlisle naturally figured that I would find with Rosalie what he had found with Esme."

"In a sort of creepy, share-the-same-vampire-dad kinda way?"

"What about any of this is _not_ creepy?"

"Hahaha, that's fucking fair enough! Just so you know, Rosalie intimidates me in every way imaginable. I'm pretty sure if she had a dick, it'd be way bigger than mine." A clock chimes somewhere in the depths of large house, soft and distant.

"If Rosie's bravado and tenacity were represented by genital size, then yes. Biggest dick out of everyone, ever." We share a manly chuckle over this, and by 'manly chuckle' I mean we snicker nervously because heehee, genitals. Yeah, fuck it, if he can travel with me down the road of penis jokes, that's love. That's fucking love, right here, sprawled on the carpet having goddamned gigglefits over how horrifying the crime scene would look if Rosalie ever overheard us. She was, what, nineteen forever? That's not quite out of the woods in accordance to teenaged rationality and the having none thereof.

"Was Alice also an arranged marriage dealy?"

"No... Alice showed up out of nowhere, prophesying Jasper's arrival to an exact detail. The world wasn't kind to either of them, and let's just leave it at that. Right now, you're hungry."

"I am! Obviously you have a bit of the prophet in you as well. Or are a witch, and should be weighed against a duck."

"I am both heavier than a duck and larger than a breadbox."

"Don't build up my expectations or anything. Oh shit, man, this is serious. I've got the low blood sugars and it is making me say _retarded things_. To the pantry~!" I roll halfheartedly to my side, pointing dramatically up at the ceiling.

"The pantry is without food~!" Edward mimics despair, grasping my hand because _heeeee_. Ridiculous brand-spankin'-new couple behavior, _engage_.

"Bah, fuck it. Chief is expecting me home early anyway." I rolled up to a sit, digging bare toes into the carpet. "My vestments, good sir."

"Right, of course." Suddenly, an empty room.

"Well, I mean, we could do this Stockholm style if you really w - " I am interrupted by a faceful of freshly laundered trousers and shirt, respectively. "Nff frr."

* * *

I could have driven home alone. Coulda eaten at the empty kitchen table, tested out the Sheriff's new internet connection and bemoaned the hilarious lag until he got home and sent me to bed early for the fishing trip tomorrow morning. I could have even called Edward, maybe, like a normal and dutiful boyfriend, and spoken with the hushed tones of someone staying up well past curfew because the fucker didn't need sleep. I did not do any of this, because I did not drive home alone.

We didn't speak much until Clifford left the grind of the country road, and then only the awkward small talk of two people who had to completely reorganize their evaluations of one another. Edward seemed to have it pretty well in hand that I wasn't some woe-begone emo cutter, and instead just a Pretty Strange Dude 'cos that's how some of us artfags get wired early on and there was no real changing my mind about how Fucking Cool monsters were.

I was saving some of the heavier questions about his family for future conversations, preferably those held in the post-coital stupor. By the time home crept into view, my limbs were shaky and I had a pounding headache (either from hunger or the previous exercise or just cigarette withdrawal or what). My stomach didn't growl so much as keep itself in the tight knot to which it had been tangled - before all the lusting got in the way and totally blew my thoughts far away from mundane shit like basic survival.

"You wanna come in?" I was halfway out of the truck, and threw the question over my shoulder before Edward could slink away as per flighty virgin habit. It wasn't like the proposal was totally suspect or anything, since we both knew Charlie'd be back sometime eventually, but man… that it took so long for him to answer, fucking - _ghh_!

"Yes. I do."

"Okay, well, you can use the front door and everything. No spelunking equipment required." A dry chuckle as he followed me to the porch. The sun was just beginning to set, throwing hard grey lines into Edward's face and neck, and he ducked through the front door as soon as it was opened. "So. Photosensitivity in cell tissue?"

"UVB radiation, is the theory."

"Evolved that way, maybe? The germ or virus or whatever it is."

"Or perhaps we are aaalieeens…?" Wiggling his fingers at me like a goddamn Houdini sonofabitch.

"I've been reassured that you are neither alien nor robot." I draw the kitchen curtains shut, flipping on the small stove light because our overhead fluorescent was burnt out. It was a dim atmosphere. Intimate. A plate of leftover lasagna made it to the microwave - now all I needed was a fat violinist in an apron and a checkered table cloth.

Edward shrugs, taking up Charlie's usual spot at the table. "I liken it to a contagious form of cancer. Your cells change; they stop doing what they used to do because there is a break or warp in their DNA instruction. Unlike cancer - where they multiply and devour without pause - the cells simply die. Everything speeds up - muscle tissue still requires fuel, brain activity is normal, for all intent and purpose. Your blood doesn't pump so much as turn your veins into telephone wires. Every structure and protein is there, but it's on pause. Does that make sense?"

I swallow the lukewarm forkful of cheesy tomato deliciousness. "Can't imagine there's been much study in the modern medical community on vampirism, babe. What's Carlisle say?"

Edward runs his finger along the rim of a stray coffee mug, the porcelain ringing lightly. "He doesn't like to discuss it. I don't know if he's terrified of finding a cure, or spent most of his years looking only to be disappointed."

"So is that what you're gonna do? Study medicine and biology just to get shit figured out?"

"That's the plan. You've been a bit of an interruption."

"Oh, haha, well _sorry_." I suck a bit of cheese from the inner snag of my left snakebite, which pulls my bottom lip into an exaggerated pout.

Edward laughs. "No time left for studies. Haven't had a night to myself since Port Angeles."

My hand stills over the paper napkin. I lean back in my chair, squinting through the weak light. "What's that supposed to mean." All those restless nights when I couldn't even wank because something felt fundamentally _out of place_ about the world… Holy fucking shit, I was going pop a fucking gasket and fork-stab a bitch if all that was just a socially inept vampire hanging out in my closet reading National fucking Geographic.

Edward lightly clears his throat, tapping the handle of the coffee mug with a fingernail, studying the table. He looks up with a brief attempt at a smile, which drops as our eyes meet. "Sleepwalking is a natural reaction to mental duress."

I pull a deep breath through my nose, slapping the napkin to the empty plate. "Every night? _Every _night? Every. Night."

He turns his nose away, scrutinizing the air above the sink. "You're angry."

"I'm… sure as fuck _something_." Swiftly piling the mug and fork and glass onto the plate, standing to dump everything into the sink with a loud clatter.

"I was worried, Bernardo. I saw you leave the house. You pulled your boots on and walked down the stairs with your eyes closed, through the porch, all the way to the end of the driveway in your pyjamas. Looked as if you were checking the mail, but all you did was pat the top of the mailbox and return."

That made sense. I used to run laps up and down the driveway as a child, waiting for cars to arrive or Charlie to take me on a trip. Tagging the mailbox. I chew a bit of food fished out from behind a molar, kicking at the errant cupboard door beneath the sink. It creaks open again, swollen and warped with age and damp. I kick harder, wedging it closed.

"Don't be upset," he implored, standing within an elbow's reach, the front of one shoulder brushing the back of mine.

"I'm not mad." A grim smile. "I'm _disappointed_."

"I realize it was an invasion of privacy. I could apologize for the offense, but I'm not sorry for keeping an eye on you."

"No, Edward. I'm _literally_ disappointed." I turn on heel, nudging an elbow into his ribs. "All that time we could have been making out and I didn't even know you were in the house. Perfectly good waste of nightly bedroom occupation, 'f you ask me."

The grin is tired and wary and he elbows me back none too gently. "You are a little upset though, aren't you?"

"Yes. It's creepy. Don't do it anymore, at least not without telling me so I can leave a lamp on or something. Fuck, had I known there'd been an _audience_ - !"

"You would have… what? Slept in a carefully attenuated pose?"

"Maybe just held off the shame-faced _dick-touching_ until you left?"

The laugh is jerked out of his throat and bit off halfway, a hand flying up to cover his mouth under wide eyes.

"Didn't even consider it? You honestly don't remember being a warm-blooded teenager?"

"It's definitely coming back to me."

"So other than the sleep-walking and the interrupted self-love, what else did you stick around for? If you say the reading material I will eat my fucking shoe."

"I… what? Nothing. I only watched you sleep." He winces, probably just now realizing how bad it was when admitted out loud like that. "I… found out that you rest more peacefully when it rains. That and the sleep-walking; that's all."

"What do you mean, I sleep better when it rains?"

A shrug. "That you might have heard the rain a lot in the womb. Which means that your mother lived here at least for the duration of her pregnancy. Deductive reasoning."

"Holy shit, you really could fight crime."

"Bernardo could you work to be a little less obtuse?"

"Mmh…" I smirk. "No. Thanks for telling me, though. About the night-watching thing." I clap the side of his arm and turn to the sink to wash up the day's pile of used dining ware, scraping food into the garbage disposal while Edward leans back against the nearby counter, doing what he does best.

The headlights from the Sheriff's cruiser flash through the kitchen curtains and Edward twitches away from the window. "Ought I leave?"

"Oh. Uh…" I peer over my shoulder at the kitchen door, wicking soap from a plate. Tried to imagine Charlie Sr. walking through, the look on his face, the latent attempt at re-introductions. What either of us would say. "Maybe, yeah. You gonna hang around tonight?" I meant the question to be acidic, but it came out with a high note of anticipation.

"Yes." A cold face pressed to the side of my own, the brush of eyelashes across the top of my cheek. An empty kitchen.

Dad's key turned in the lock, heavy boots clumping as he kicked dirt off at the door mat. "Charlie?" Didn't know why he was calling since I was the only other one who lived here, but maybe his own sixth sense was telling him that shit was askew in the usual order of business.

"Yep," I called from the sink. It came out as a yelp just as the kitchen doorway was rounded and Charlie Sr. poked his head in.

"Oh, hey there kiddo," he half-whispered, as if we'd just met in a library. I blamed the awful excuse for a lamp over the stove - it was maybe a thirty year old fixture, with the wattage to prove it, and droned on like a bee with a headcold. "You already ate, huh?" He sets a bag of takeout on the tabletop and begins to rifle through it, sitting down to his chair - adjusting the distance and angle from the table with a small frown. I put my attention squarely back to the sink. "Get me a beer while you're over there?"

"Yeah." I shake my hands and wipe them on my jeans, pulling the fridge open. The beer lands in front of the Sheriff and I sit opposite, nosing in the paper bag for a stray won-ton.

"So." Charlie cracks the beer open on the edge of the table, slapping the top down between us. "How was your day? Make it to Seattle?"

"No."

"Truck issues?"

"No." I nibble a beansprout from one of the compact white cardboard cartons. His chopsticks still halfway into the fried rice. I pop the sprout into my mouth and sit on my hands, trying to look innocent because Charlie Swan's son Did Not Hesitate With Food. His son devoured, shoveled, or inhaled. He did not pick or nibble or graze.

"So what's up."

"Had lasagna."

"Yeah, I can smell it. Bet it was good. Where did you go, if not Seattle?"

My voice was a little tight, and a hangnail held most of my attention. "Hung out at Edward's place instead. We didn't wanna drive anywhere."

The deadpan question-that-was-not-a-question. "Were his parents home."

I bite the hangnail, eyebrows pinching up. "No?" Tried not to squirm under the inspection. Failed.

The chopsticks slowly resume their dismantling. He sighs, practically a growl. "You know the rule about that, Chuck."

"Yeah but come on, you've met Edward. He's like, all-american, wheaties-for-breakfast, four-point-oh A.P. student."

"Uh-huh. And you two were... what, exactly? Working on a class project? Studying for a test?"

The heat of a blush stings my face and I pick at a splinter in the cheap break-away chopsticks. His sarcasm was warranted - that much I was willing to admit. "Maybe what we were doing... falls into the category…" I mumble, tucking my chin to my chest. "None of your business?" I'm chewing the hangnail again, shoulders hitched up tight. Would rather be _anywhere_ than in this kitchen, having this discussion.

I count the seconds as they tick away, Charlie's face inscrutable. He's frowning at me, that much is sure. Now he's frowning at his dinner, stabbing the chopsticks into the carton to set it all down and to the side. Smooths a palm over the tabletop, collecting crumbs of rice. "Have you been to the clinic yet?"

The part inside of me that just wants to curl up and die finally lunges to punch its reaper in the nuts. "No! Godammit, _dad_." I lean my face into my hands, scrubbing at my temples. "I'm not _that_ fast. Christ."

"We set down rules. I want you being smart about this. I want you safe."

"I know! Ugh, _I know_. Okay. Shit. Thanks."

"I'll take you both if I have to."

Thunderous silence. I swallow, elbows on the table. That was a bluff I wasn't even going to try and call. The old man was serious. "Dad. Please. Be cool about this. I don't think his family _knows_, you know?"

"Taking his son's partner to the free clinic is about the coolest thing a father can do, Chuck. I'm sorry you seem to think otherwise."

I groan, bouncing my knee. That was 'partner' with a capital 'P'. Kill me now. "Okay. Yes, thank you. You are the best and most coolest dad alive. Can I turn in now?"

He jabs the tabletop with a finger. "We're not done talking about this."

"Right. You've got all of tomorrow to humiliate me." I stand, bracing the back of the chair. "Good night, Sheriff."

"Bernardo."

I cringe, halfway to the door. "What."

"Cellphone and laptop."

"What…? Oh, god, fff_fine_." I dash up the stairs, returning to a still kitchen with the requested items in hand. Charlie has stowed the food in the fridge, apparently off his appetite and nursing the beer like it was injured. I plunk the laptop on the counter and slap the phone on top. "Going to sleep now, is that okay?"

"Chuck,"

"_What_."

He sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. "You're my son and I love you."

"_Okay_ already."

"But you've pulled a lot of ridiculous stunts in your time. Maybe it's some fault of mine, or your mother's, who knows."

I stare down the frame of the kitchen door, dread bracing my knees. "It's not."

"No? Well… nevermind. Get to bed."

I flee. Brush my teeth angry. Shower terrified. Dress for the night reluctantly. Stare blankly down the top floor hallway, deliberating. Charlie hails a good night from the kitchen, no doubt listening to me scamper around in agitation. I make sure to close my door loud enough, then stand motionless for fear the floorboards of my room would betray me. The kitchen radio's news station flickers up through the room's vent and I relax. Charlie would probably take an hour to unwind with his beer before turning in.

"Maybe not such a good idea, you sticking around." I whisper into the dark, feeling a bit stupid.

"Figured you would want me here, after all that."

I sneer, "Are you kidding?" Eyes adjusting to the semi-dark, I step carefully to my bed, where Edward is lounging with a paperback. "Pretty thoroughly mortified you could hear us."

Edward sits, clasping the book between his knees, thumb in the margin. "I already told you how much your father cares. It's no real surprise."

I wave him to slide over, keeping my voice at a rasp. "Right, right. You've got a backstage pass for all things left unsaid. I forgot."

"All things left unsaid. That's… poetic. I like that."

I flop down on the mattress, then turn on my side to poke Edward in the hip. "I gotta sleep."

"Fishing tomorrow."

"Yep."

Edward's weight leaves the bed and he takes the chair at my desk, flipping a page of his paperback. He looks up, chuckles, then bends his head back to his reading.

I've kicked the blankets into place and peek over the edge of a half-flat feather pillow. "What."

"Charlie thinks you're going to sneak out."

"Fuck, he's probably heard me sleepwalking again and thinks I'm, like… fuck." I punch the pillow into a semblance of better shape. "Why are you way over there?"

"You want to sleep," he whispers, eyes to the book. Out of the corner of my eye, he seems like nothing more than a trick of the light. A bit of clothing draped over a chair and mingled with shadows to resemble a sitting person.

"Sleep is what I intend, yes." Edward drops his book to his knee, craning his head around. I shuffle to make room on the narrow twin-size, smile tired. Yes, I wanted to fucking cuddle. Sue me. "My libido has been properly collared by all that awkward filial concern and everything."

A flicker of doubt, and then my bed is full of chilly metrosexual mythos, tucking the blankets between us. It's not like I had cooties (and would probably soon have the paperwork to prove it, fuck my life) but I'd take it for the baby-step it was. Twenty minutes after the pillow-punching and settling in, Edward sighs. "If I'm keeping you awake…"

I smile, eyes shut against his shoulder. "You can hear it, can't you?" My pulse had sped up when I'd offered half my bed and hadn't slowed since the second he accepted. "Y'make my heart go boom, boom boom," I sang, turning on my stomach with a small hushed laugh. "Is it, like, too much? Too close?"

"No." A dry, cold finger traces a path across the back of my neck, hooking into the collar of my t-shirt to tug lightly. "I guess I am strong enough, after all."

"Heh." I stretch, yawning despite the crack-addled hamster running its wheel through my chest. "Why do you think that is?"

The jostle of a shrug. "As simple as mind over matter."

"Oh. Simple. A technique it takes monks on mountaintops their entire lifetimes to achieve. Sure."

"I've had a lifetime to myself already, haven't I?" I don't suppose vampires have much opinion on the matter of physical comfort, but Edward settles further into the mattress as lax as a corpse can. "I am trying, though. If it gets to be too much, I promise you that I'll leave."

"Your breath smells like newspaper ink."

"Bernardo,"

I turn my head to grin, eyes heavy-lidded, burying my arms under the pillow. "You're in complete control of your impulses. My exact opposite. I get it already."

"It might not be this easy after tomorrow. Any time away from you and it feels like I have to start all over again."

"So stick around."

Edward turns on his side to face me, hand sliding under the pillow to rest against my arm. I am once again struck by his sincerity and the ease with which he was handling the whole oops-I'm-gay-afterall shindig. "You have my nights from now on." The hand slides up, gripping my wrist. "If I have yours."

My stomach trembled. His fingers tightened, fishing out my pulse. "I… got nothing else planned. Let me check my calendar." I roll my eyes. "Yep, every night from here until graduation, you got me. We'll call it vampiric parole."

A silent laugh shakes the bed, his whisper subdued. "What happens after graduation?"

"I go to college, most likely. Hopefully a real hoity-toity art school. But by then, who knows?"

His fingers gentle their grip, sliding up into my palm. "I have not felt the sting of uncertainty for the passage of time in over fifty years."

"You're welcome."

"Jerk."

"You'll get used to it."

Low, furtive: "I don't want to get used to it."

Since it was pretty obvious by this point I wasn't going to get any sleep, I pick my head up and scoot closer, hooking an ankle over his leg. The fabric of his slacks felt thick and unyielding compared to the usual bedtime faire of flannel and cotton. Do vampires wear pyjamas? The great mystery of our time. "Well you either get used to it or get sick of it. I'd rather the former."

He closes his eyes in that pinched way he does whenever I've ruined his angst. "Just… don't ever stop changing. Don't become still and cold, like the rest of us."

"_So_ do not want to die, so you don't have to worry 'bout that. Oh - fuck, hang on, I forgot." I don't let him stew in apprehension: "You can't have all my nights. I promised Jennifer I'd take her to the Sadie Hawkin's. She's trying to make Mike jelly." To his pinched brow and frown: "Jealous."

Dawning comprehension, a smirk. "I guess I'll have to attend the wretched thing after all, then. Make sure our young man doesn't overstep in his gallantry."

"Keep my pretty face intact? That'd be cool." I elbow him through the barrier of sheets. "From parole officer to bodyguard; consider yourself promoted." Another yawn, deeper than the last. "Teach me how to waltz if I sleepwalk."

"Scared me, seeing it for the first time. I didn't rightly know what to do, and you were mumbling."

"What'd I say?"

"Nonsense mostly. I think you were quoting a Spanish soap opera at one point."

I had to stifle the laugh with a faceful of pillow. "_Te quiero, por que, Mariano~! _I had _the_ biggest celebrity crush on Eduardo Verastegui as a kid."

Edward props himself up on an elbow, drawing his hand back to his side of the invisible wall, though he had yet to shy away from my foot. "Oh?"

"Never had a fascination like that with anyone? Besides your huge obvious crush on me, of course." I matched his posture, propping myself up with the pillow.

"Oh, of course." He peers into the no-space between us, foot wagging off the end of the bed because aaahaha, fuck, twin-size. He shakes his head. "I don't think I even want to _try_ remembering back that far."

"No good comes from living in the past?"

"Exactly so, Bernardo." The barest gleam of a toothy smile. "So it's fair to say that you are, in fact, the first to hold my fascination."

"Mmmh…" I slide back to my stomach to hide the giant ecstatic grin in the pillow. "I'm honored," I rasp, after resurfacing. Edward had tipped himself very close at this point, and leaned those few centimeters forward to half-cover me over the quilts, nosing at the juncture between shoulder and neck to inhale deeply. I muffle a squawk and the pang of not-quite-fear hits me broadside when I realize he's got me in a grip and happens to remain one _strong_ motherfucker.

"Bernardo…" Edward whispers at my ear. "Get to sleep already."

I hum assent; anything to keep the steely bands of his arms pinning me to the mattress. "Try that vampire hypnotism thing, Professor X."

A pause. "Okay. Feel any sleepier?"

"I think I might sneeze."

Another jostle of voiceless laughter, Edward nosing along the back of my head and neck. He freezes above me. A hiss, "Stay down." An empty room. Late, I catch the militant footfall of the Sheriff, hear my door swing open. I force my breathing slow, heart pounding so loudly I feared he might actually hear it. I watch from under my arm as Charlie takes two steps in, surveys the Beatles poster on the far wall, scoffs at the pile of laundry next to the desk, and meanders out. He leaves the door open a crack, the hallway's night lamp painting an anemic rectangle across my bed.

I count the tasks as I hear them: the flush of the toilet, the run of the shower. A clatter as the bottom-most of the linen closet is dissembled for spare waders. Finally, _finally_ the Sheriff retires.

A cold arm snakes around my middle under the sheets. "Did I alarm you?"

"Yeah."

"I don't suppose you're going to fall asleep any time soon."

"Yeah probably not." I turn my nose to meet his, snagging a kiss.

"That feels different without the metal in." We whisper in ever muted tones, paranoid about the old man sleeping just down the hall.

"Yeah? 'S it better?"

He inclines his head. "Different." I kiss him again just so he can have a proper scientific trial, surprised when his lips fall open under my searching tongue. Maybe I _would_ get that tongue ring on my eighteenth; got a responsibility to keep shit spontaneous, after all. Holy fuck, you guys, we are officially making out in my bed. He rasps my name when I come up for air, a gritty undertone of warning that makes my toes curl. "Thought you said your libido was properly leashed."

"Leashed, not muzzled."

He shifts, sighs. "If you don't sleep now, there will be questions tomorrow."

"So put me to sleep, baby." I croon, scratching at his stomach.

He catches my hand. "I can try." Curls his thin digits between mine. "If you want." We were already whispering, so how was it that he managed to sound so damn meek?

"What, going to sing me a lullaby?" I would kick myself if that turned out to be true. Foot, meet mouth.

"Not quite." A dip in the bed as he shifts, slides easily between my back and the wall without much jostling. "It's a medical fact, after orgasm the body readily shuts down for slumber."

I almost choke on my own tongue. "_What_?"

A dark chuckle. "Basic physiology, Bernardo."

I am actually too stunned to speak, the rustle of sheets and quilt narrating in my stead. His body is remarkably still behind me, waiting. A dry cough, rasp: "I can't believe I'm actually going to turn you down. Fuck. Charlie is _right down the hall_." I hiss, throwing a hand toward the open door. "Fucking cocktease, _christ_."

A measured silence. "I should leave, then."

I wanted to kick something. "Don't you fucking _dare_."

A helpless noise, protest aborted. "It's a torture sometimes that your thoughts are so unreadable. I'll stay."

I pull his arm over and down, curling in over the cold branch. Slide his palm down my thigh, growling into the feather pillow. A sharp exhale against my ear, Edward wriggling his other arm under my ribs. A shift, his hands sliding back to grip mine, pushing all part and parcel down past the elastic of pyjamas and boxers in one smooth motion. I strangle a moan down into a hiccough, legs kicking slowly through the blankets like pedaling a bike underwater. What his icy touch doesn't meet he orchestrates my hands to reach instead, pads of his fingers gliding over my knuckles as they did over piano keys.

"You're warm."

I huff a curse, "You're not."


	15. FAFTAIN

**: X :**

_SO MANY SQUIGGLY RED LINES ON ALL THE WORD  
EDITORS. Bernardo, why am your slang narration so  
wacky. *sobhic*_

_The usual warnings apply; NSFW, rated R, liberties taken_  
_with plot and character, et cetera._

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN:** Results Are In

* * *

I woke to a dark room. Rain drummed against the house, pressing an urgent signal to my bladder that in turn reminded my dick of last night's second-hand wankery - and don't _I_ get a prize for weirdest handjob ever or what. It had been like... I don't know, like Edward had been afraid to touch me, sliding cool fingers over my own to orchestrate the most awkward and thrilling ten minutes of my short life.

Staggering out of bed, I felt my way to the hall door and realized what was amiss - the hall light Charlie had left on was either burnt out, or we'd lost power. Well, whatever. Life at Casa Del CheetoStain was practically roughin' it in the woods, what with the drafts and leaky roof and mice in the pantry and crickets in the cellar and the veritable bachelor-troll stankin' up the livingroom. Most of the produce dad ever bought could be grilled in the open safety of the garage (clapboard ceiling blackened by years of sheltering many a barbecue from the Olympic Peninsula's meteorological wroth), so it wasn't like we'd starve.

Something landed weighty on my shoulder and I startled forward, banging the heel of my palm against the doorframe before my mind could catch up with the pinch of adrenaline in my chest and reassure me that it was, in fact, simply Edward's hand. His fingers squeezed firmly, steering me around.

"Hey," the word spilled out of me in a rush of breath, a harsh whisper. "Fucking... scared the shit out of me just now."

"You're awake?" I couldn't find his face in the gloom, but felt him tug as he shifted closer.

"I sure as hell am_ now_, fuck." Silence fell after a distant clap of thunder, and I shuffled bare feet against the grainy wood flooring to dislodge imagined perils like spiders or ants or sock lint.

"I thought you were, ah, you know."

I did not, in fact, 'know' and it was too early to make any creative assumptions. "Going... to the bathroom?"

"Sleepwalking."

Oh. "Well. I'm not." Another moment's silence. "I _am_ going to come back, y'know."

The glimmer of two crescent light refractions as Edward shifts his gaze. "All right."

"So you should, uh, go ahead and let go of me?"

"Oh." The hand leaves my shoulder, and I squint into the sudden illumination of a lightning flash. Edward _was_ close; it never stopped amazing me how near and how still he could hold himself without making any noise. Sexy goddamn creeper.

"Mkay. Going to go piss now." Don't fucking follow me, unless, you know, you're into that kinda thing. Spent way too much time glancing over my shoulder in the dark and reaching fingertips out to make sure the bathroom door remained shut, just in case. Briefly wondered if we in fact had power restored, yet spark plug or circuit breaker or whatever for the lights needed replacing or rebooting (like in Jurassic Park you got to open the panel and drop your flashlight limping away from the screeching 'clever girls' oh man but like how do you KNOW that was the only black guy on the island I mean come on) so yeah I took a shower and brushed my teeth in the near-complete darkness of a thunderstorm, operating by memory and noisy fumble.

I mean you know it wasn't _pitch_ dark, I mean there was that weak kind of static from the storm outside, residual and continuous lightning (wouldst Charlie's mackerel-spleening journey be delayed by peril of heavenly retribution?) - yeah okay way too fucking early to narrate anything cleverly. Hfff.

Had some difficulty locating a towel; could not decide between disappointment and relief when Edward did not show up with one in hand. Some struggle in gathering bedclothes - which is like a fancy word for pyjamas. Nearly tripped over the t-shirt where I had left it. Vaguely wondered if any of this was going to wake Sheriff; tiptoed down hall back to room despite unholy racket of previous twenty minutes. Silently congratulated self on surgically removing the term 'ironic' from vocabulary.

I stumbled over a pair of long legs stretched out from the edge of my bed, into a jean-clad lap. (Can anybody answer the question as to why the dude with the hyper-aware senses did not simply get the fuck out of my way? No?) "Ooph. Oh, hey." A rasp, voice still damp from the shower. "You, uh, changed." There, then here.

"Didn't want the neighbors to gossip." He pulls one leg to the side and I relent my knees to the chill of the floor, burying my face into what felt like a cable-knit sweater. "You really do have awful night-vision."

A subdued scoff. "I don't have _any_ night vision, ya fuck." I press into him, getting a knee to the mattress, careful not to lose the towel. The thunder outside echoing in my veins. He doesn't budge.

"You oughtn't start all this again," but cool knuckles rubbed obligingly up and down my bare back, and we traded argument for lip-lock, until he replaced the kiss for a tight, exasperated embrace. "Hmmph," a groan against my chest. "You taste like fluoride and smell like lye."

I froze, because it sounded an awful lot like I'd just been chastised for _good_ _hygiene_. "You want me to switch to glycerin organic soap and start brushing my teeth with peroxide 'n baking-soda there, gramps?"

A scoff. "Or you might go as far as true old-school; chewing bits of wood," dark chuckle. "Yak piss as aftershave."

"You're not allowed to fuck with me this early in the morning." There was a strained note of glee in my protest; o hay thar, Edward's Personality, it's good to see you haven't left us.

"I ought return the stipulation."

"Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

By example, Edward stood me from the bed and drifted over to the wardrobe, tossing clothes at me whether I could catch them or not. "Your father's awake. He went downstairs to reattach your starter during your shower... and is now preparing breakfast by flashlight."

"Oh." I rucked my boxers up under the towel, shivering as jeans and thermal shirt followed, Edward politely preoccupied with the storm outside. Well well well, Charlie had actually taken proactive measure in keeping my rebellious young ass house-bound. I was nearly proud of the effort, but kinda insulted he thought I knew so little of engines.

"You aren't seriously going to fish in this?"

I joined Edward at the window, clutching the sweater he'd chucked at my head. "Meh, it'll be done or we'll have driven out of it by the time we hit the lake." I set my arm around his hips and rest my chin on his shoulder, woozy with residual drowsiness and sheer fucking glee. The collar of his pressed shirt is smooth and cool against my cheek, the cozy barrier of his sweater hiding the stony body and its chill.

"Do you love me?"

Just like that, I was awake. "B-uh...?"

A quiet intone, words measured. "If you love me, you'll keep yourself safe. All right?"

"M'kaaay," I squeezed against him before letting go, gathering the thickest set of socks I could find and sitting to the bed to pull them on. Perhaps he didn't realize that we'd been through this discussion before. "First off, never do that again, that _bargaining-with-words_ thing. Secondly, I know better than to fish in a storm. Sheriff knows better. Cripes, dude."

"This isn't about the storm. You're... I, ah, heard some of Charlie's thoughts last night. You aren't careful with yourself, and apparently you never have been. In many ways, on which I hadn't before thought to dwell." Edward crosses the room in a blur, perched beside me on the mattress. "It is no longer your risk alone. You are my life, now."

"Heh, your life, because you're dead. And I'm not. Haha, ha..." Yeah awright, who was I to second-guess a near century old creature of the night? Not like he hadn't already hinted as much undue sentiment, as sudden a change from 'mildly disgusted' to 'practically engaged' as this was.

"Bernardo,"

Augh, fuck, that tone of voice. "Can we have this conversation when I'm a little better rested? And fed? And... _prepared_?"

"You aren't ready for this?"

I twist and untwist the blanket corner. "I'm just... I can't hardly fucking believe it, is all. From yesterday to this very minute, I keep thinking I'll wake up. Like Tyler's van really had hit me, and this is all just one big dramatic coma-dream."

"Hmp. You would be that creative, wouldn't you?"

A ruffle of damp hair, and I surprise us both by biting irritably at his arm. I mumbled around a mouthful of sweater, "Nvr gnna lt fhe robok aeleen fing go, hhuh?"

"Never going to let the 'robot alien' thing go, no." He shifts so that we are hip to hip as I finger lint from my bottom lip with a grimace. "When are you going to set Charlie's mind at ease and introduce me? His worry was an overwhelming broadcast this morning."

"Whaddya mean? Charlie's already met you. Pretty sure he approves of your wholesome influence or what the fuck ever." I yawn, heart chugging away at its high-speed elation despite my drowse.

"As your boyfriend, I mean."

"Yeah," I drawl, glancing away. My irrefutable reluctance towards commitment began to steadily shove both feet into my stupid gaping food-hole. "Nnnot diggin' the term 'boyfriend', and it's not like I can introduce you as my, eh, 'lover'... or vampire bodyguard, either."

"Suitor?"

"More under the impression I was the one courting you, sort of."

"Ah." There is a silence and I'm glad I'm not the only one who doesn't know what to call 'this'. I just don't want to be the bitch, mkay? Sue me for having this like, totally insanely uptight gig all about my manhood and gender-identity control issues and it just comes with the territory of being short and defensive and incapable of winning at fisticuffs, y'know? "He wants an explanation, your father does. A label to give me, some social structure to lean back on. 'Boyfriend' seems most appropriate for this era."

"Tch," I roll my eyes, our attention flicking to the window-rattling crack of thunder right over the house. After such bone-jarring noise, my voice sounds small in my own ears. "What would the label be from your era, then?" I expected more of the suitor/lover bend, but -

Edward's voice is dimmed, his enunciation proper and slow. "Sodomites. Criminals."

"Annnd, so, like, what? What would parents do with a gay kid?"

"Hide you away in a mental hospital, pretend you never existed."

"Didn't have a lot of friends growing up, did we?"

An injured laugh. "Peers my own age? Oh, sure." His voice evens out, he shifts. "But I think you're getting the wrong idea. Homosexuality, back then - and to my family especially, we just never _thought_ on it. It wasn't an issue because it wasn't an option."

"Fuck that, man. Parents know." I stand, looking over my shoulder. "Moms know. Your mother probably knew before you did."

"What are we talking about, here?" A dangerous edge, like I'm accusing him of something other than, I dunno, the fucking truth.

"Yeah, well, nevermind then. For what it's worth, dude, I am sorry." Knelt on the mattress to find his forehead with my fingers and then lips, and shut the fuck up I know this is like the stupidest sappy moment, putting a band-aid over Closet McBroody's boo-boo'd ego. Sat back to the bed with a bounce, slapping Edward's shoulder. "And _you_ can totally go to town with the whole boyfriend shindig. My dad will very ecstatically drive your dead ass to the free clinic, and good fucking luck on _your_ blood analysis coming up normal."

Edward _huffs_, like that's actually a noise he makes now for the sole purpose of communicating his displeasure o-m-g. "At least let me introduce you to my family. Properly."

I scratch lightly at the back of his neck, sitting restless in the dark. "Yeah, all right. I can hold your hand when you tell them and everything."

"You can what?"

"You know, 'mom, dad, I'm gay!'; sometimes guys need like a... like some support about that."

"Bernardo," A warm hint of amusement. "I am not a homosexual."

* * *

All through the drive to the lake I couldn't help but dwell on Edward's parting argument. Charlie was silent, perhaps in deference to my groggy mumbled responses, or maybe just to savor the fading noise of the thunderstorm we were leaving behind for the pre-dawn quiet of Southwest Washington landscape. Anyway, Edward's point? Some bullshit that it wasn't the gender, but the individual with which he had fallen in love (that sarcastic hurking in the background is my poor under-developed emotional relay desperately attempting to cover up all the bullshit tenderness inevitably overwhelming my casual sexual attraction, #FML).

I mean, not that I'm not fucking over-the-moon _ecstatic_ that I landed me the affections of one undead hottie, but I am way too fucking young to be trading ILUs, and honestly we hadn't known each other all that long and really how fucked up _is_ it to be dating a guy who doesn't know that sexual encounters with men, if enjoyed, denote homosexuality? I shudder to use the term _Bernardo-sexual_ because the evidence would have been proof in arousal, and oh my fucking god could a body without a pulse even _get_ an erection?

All rigor-mortis jokes aside (and what are you, twelve, cut that shit out), the science behind it only affords two options; that Edward Cullen is or is not impotent. I didn't have time to bring it up before I had been called down to breakfast, and we'd traded enough parting kisses that my doubt sort of reeled drunkenly from one side of the road to the other.

The pavement passing under the tires of Charlie's cruiser grew smooth and soundless, and the radio was thumbed to life to fill my busy silence with the backdrop of soothing talkshow. On the one hand - what if Edward _was_ impotent? This would be good for me, because it would mean any lack of arousal was never directly the fault of my gender; it would just be physically impossible. I'm not going to even list why it would be bad for me, but it would be doubly bad for Edward, because I am a shallow jerk who would dump his marble ass if that were the case.

Option two, that Edward Cullen was not at all impotent, and whatever science allowed his limbs to operate without normal bloodflow would allow his cock to fill with -whatever- for the mechanizations of arousal. Morbidly curious over what spunk on a diet of blood would taste like, squick myself out over recalled menses jokes, shake head violently to rearrange thoughts. Much to the chuckling of the Sheriff, whose joke about sleepy-headedness fell into the background drone of the radio and went ignored.

Well. If Edward were capable of physical arousal, that'd be _bad_ for me because it would mean that last night really _hadn't_ turned him on, and that he'd simply given a leg to the spastic humpy dog, so to speak. The more I dwelled on this, the further my mood soured. Both options weren't great forecasts for my future with Mr. Tall-Dead-'n-Granite. I didn't relish trying to explain all of this to him, either, because nobody likes admitting that they're superficial and cock-hungry, especially to someone who happens to be just _regular_ hungry for you and does his damnedest not to eat you because he just loves spending time with you so much and aaaugh!

I actually slammed the car door at the pit-stop, and Charlie wordlessly returned from the register with two black coffees and the bemused sympathy of a 'morning-person'.

Yadda, yadda, the lake was lovely and serene under the clouds, blah blah still water and awkward boyfriend-establishment conversation with father, eerie lack of insects on account of early spring weather, oh and at one point Harry Clearwater showed up with some surprise and there was a joyful little reunion that spared me further humiliating interrogation of my personal life ('I might not even actually like him that way, dad! But he kinda needs my help right now and please don't be weird at him when he drops by'). I guess Bill Black and Jake were there, too, but you don't want the boring details.

What, you want the boring details?

Some of you actually like Jakeykins? What the hell, nobody likes Jake, he's like, fifteen and full of metal and acne and aw fuck I'm going to have to tell you about the awkward kissing.

* * *

Okaaay, so two years isn't all that big a diff between us, yanno? I guess he even recently turned sixteen and that was kinda what the bonfire thing last week had been about (I felt like such a tool for not knowing that, and doubly toolish for Sarah's party having crashed their event). Right, so. One year. No big. Except when it is.

Because we're in highschool, right? These things are measured by strict grade hierarchies, and Juniors Do Not Date Sophomores. Especially slacker autumn-birthday fools like Jacob Black, who was indeed still a Freshman. Ten shades of Eww No Thanks. COUNT 'EM. TEN. On a range of 'it's like kissing my cousin' aaallll the way to 'it's like kissing my cousin, who is also a kindergartner'.

There's me and Jake on the lawnchairs at the dock while all the old men share a boat and catch up (Harry Clearwater complaining that Seth had slept in, smoothing over whatever tension cropped up between Sheriff and Bill). The plastic nylon or whatever the fuck of the chair was kinda digging into my neck, so I lean forward and crane my head to catch Jake watching me, eyes all big and round as the sun puts the morning into a foggy sort of glow.

"Hey," My brain automatically latches onto how much I need a cigarette. "Isn't the bait shop just two miles from here? Wanna leg it? I need some smokes."

Jake jumps from his chair, hollering to his dad that we were going for bait and sandwiches (good man) and for everyone to try not to drown each other in our absence. We were waved permission, and hushed for scaring the fish.

Cue pebbly dirt road, dark with damp and beautifully silent, the green of Washington past its initial hesitant bud.

"You look kinda... bright today." Jake is hanging back, hovering behind and to my left as if unsure of whether or not I would bite.

"Yeah? Is nicotine withdrawal in vogue now?"

"Naw, bro, it's just that you're all... I dunno. Your eyes are really _open_ and your face is kinda pink."

I sigh, stopping at the curbside to look him square in the eye. "Are my pupils dilated?"

"They're huge, if that's what you're asking."

"Then I'm horny, and shut the fuck up about it." I keep walking.

Jacob's '_what_' squeaks like a rusty bicycle wheel, and he's giggling as if they don't teach sex-ed past elementary year. I mean _christ_, really. Really. I'd just spent half my morning in a lawn chair reminiscing over all the ways I didn't want Edward to be impotent, recalling how clinical proposal of jacking me off for sleep aid had turned to hesitant but -oh so amazing- administration of Very Good Medicine. Yeah, so I probably looked high. I wasn't exactly popping a boner, so what the fuck ever.

Roy's Tackle Box was a favorite haunt back in the days of summer camp-outs, but it had gone through some renovations in my absence. It now sold saltwater and deep-sea fishing supplies alongside freshwater, and had traded rusty tin siding for what could only be described as a polished Rite-Aid setup, all pristine angles and painted brick. I blinked in surprise, stung by doubt. This looked like the type of place that would actually fucking card me, not like the home-town family getup that would pitch over beer if you lied that it was for your dad convincingly enough.

There was even a security camera, fuck me.

Jake strolled right through the sliding doors into the slightly medicinal chill of the air-conditioned and sterile truckstop flavor, up to the counter and pounded on the bell. "_Ho-ahna_, Jacey, smokes!"

The shrill reply of a Quileute aunty. "What brand, dumpass?" Jacey toddled out from the back room with a mean grin, eyeing me up like she didn't recognize me. "Your pa still using them to poison roaches? I hear they go for the flavored cigarillos nowadays."

"Yeah sure, the expensive ones, right? _Shee_. What brand did pops say he wanted this time around?" Jake slapped my arm and I, eyebrows in my hairline, must have looked at him like he was the second coming of christ.

I blinked slowly, "That would be Red Jack, smooths." turning to Jacey with an indulgent grin. "And a box of matches, for the grill." Matches were more convincing than a lighter, which would have most assuredly been for the cigarettes because everybody knows teenagers are lazy and trendy and don't care about the environment they ruin.

Jacey narrows her eyes shrewdly, fingering the box of cigarettes but playing snatch-back when I reach for them. She very pointedly hands them to Jake, glancing between us conspiratorially as she took my cash and rung the order up. "Matches 'r free by the ice cream, gents." On our way out, "Don't let the door hit ya where the good lord split ya!" Which was crazy Tribal Aunty speak for 'nice to see you boys, gosh you've grown so big, how's school, give your family my love, okay take care buh-bye now'.

We bolted from the glass double doors laughing, and my overweight ass had to chase Jake down for my goddamn cigarettes, hooking our arms in a half-tackle when he finally slowed enough to my benefit and - okay, with the bright-eyed gratitude and the hopping about high on my own damn hormones, and the pleased moan I might have let slip at that first intake of sweet sweet tobacco, in retrospect I can understand what happened next. (Please don't mention the addition of me being shorter and most certainly weaker than Jake, even though I was older. My manly pride, it could not bear the scrutiny. Also, fuck off, Jake, you giggled at the word 'horny'.)

Having taken up a roadside log on which to light up (giving Jakey-kins a cigarette that he tucked behind his ear like he was going to save it and fuckin' treasure it oh fuck how did I not see this coming), I leaned into my best bro of the moment and exhaled a plume of smoke, only to find my cigarette's return path had been blocked by Jake's karate-hand, pushing the lit ember away from us and replacing it with his mouth instead.

He kissed, eh, aggressively to say the least, bearing down without a doubt that this was what we had walked all the way out here to do. My natural response was a protest, but lips parted for speech merely presented the opportunity of tongue and holee shit that was the scrape of a retainer OKAY TIME THE FUCK OUT. I push with all my laptop-slinging strength, but Jake is really insanely close and just, like, _insanely_ kinda rasps out "It's okay dude, I'm bi,"_ like that just makes this all better_?

"I'm. I'm not." I clamp my mouth shut against the pushy invasion (finesse he ain't got), confusion and determination battling with my face for the championship of DO NOT WANT.

Slowly, reluctantly, Jake draws back, shooting me the horny teen 'bedroom eyes' the whole while - o god I could just curl up and die this is going to get really embarrassing for him really quick. "Naw, man, it's awright." Or... or not so embarrassing? A consoling arm around my shoulders, and he lets me have my cigarette back. "My mistake." And he pats me on the back and removes himself from the log.

I'm dumbstruck by the whole thing, most especially by the casual and _dare I say mature_ response to rejection. We walk back in silence, hands and mouths occupied with the consumption of contraband vice. The morning carries on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened... and did I just dive into the closet to avoid telling my childhood friend that I already had a boyfriend?

Brain, why you do this to me. This why we can't have nice things. This why neighbors have better marriage. Why, brain. Why.

* * *

Returned home sometime before sunset (though who could tell in this weather, hurr hurr), exhausted and covered in fishguts, stripping the waders and coat at the livingroom while Sheriff toddled off to install the newly purchased fuse (not a sparkplug, which he diligently reminded me were for cars). I nearly leapt out of my own grimy skin at the knock on the door, and cautiously opened the screen to reveal Edward Cullen, black blazer thrown casually over a band t-shirt, hair mussed to perfection.

"Uh, hey Ed. What's up?" I carried a note of warning; I was tired, I was over-romanced, and I was in no mood for Polite Introductory shenanigans.

"I'm here to speak with The Sheriff, actually." In one hand, oh my god, was that a small yet tasteful vase of wildflowers?

I squeezed through the door, shutting it after me, took the flowers from the spartan blue vase and threw them out of the porch door. I then pointed... _pointedly _right in his face, scowling through layers of lake weed and worm guts. "Never the fuck bring my father flowers ever again, Cullen. Not unless someone is ill or dead."

"What if those were for you? To take to my mother? Because I want my family to like you?"

"They abso-fukken-lutely were not."

"Yeah, but _what if_, Bernardo. You'd have come off as such a tool just then."

Fuck me, I laugh. How does he always make me laugh? "Glad to see you're paying attention. Absorbing all the generational insults." Hnng, his smile. "Let's just leave the vase out here. I'll sneak it into the kitchen sometime." I open the door and usher him in. "Sheriff Swaaan! There's a madman here to sell you a bible." I kick the door shut behind us, scuffling our fishing debris out of the way.

Charlie Sr. appears in the wake of flickering houselights, dusty from his brave venture to our Washington cellar. "Oh, hey there Edward." Forcibly casual. "Just the young man I wanted to have a chat with." 'Young man', ugh. Could I be anywhere else for this?

"Right, so, I'm going get this gear hosed off in the yard." Fishy grody outerwear, I have never loved you more. The front door suffers further traffic; unfortunately by the time I return to the kitchen Ed and pops have not yet progressed past the awkward greetings and were throwing small talk at each other like it was a tennis match. "Yeah, so, uh," I square my hands on my hips, berating myself already for opening my mouth. "Edward and I are going to hang out tonight, if that's okay with you, dad? The general gist being boyfriendy-introduction to his family? So uh. Chaperoned." They both turned to me, relieved and discomfited in equal measure. "And I smell like fish, so I'm gonna shower real quick. Edward, you can wait in my r-"

"Right here with me," Charlie interrupted cheerfully, elbow-deep in flour and Harry Clearwater's fish-fry.

"Right," Mumbling, shaky and triumphant that the ordeal hadn't been mind-numbingly embarrassing (Charlie's tact won out every time, and come on how could you ever be suspicious of Edward fucking Cullen?), I climbed the stairs to wash the lake off me.


	16. SIXTEEN CANDLES

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN:** Balancing Complications

* * *

Okay Bernardo. Breathe. You don't need to call your mom, you've got this. You have been the Padawan learner and it's time to graduate to Jedi. Time to... choose your date outfit.

My name is Bernardo Swan and I have never had a respectable boyfriend.

Seeing as I never was the take-home-to-ma kinda guy, I never _dated_ that kinda guy, either; hell, never trusted my mom even if I did, which I didn't, probably for the sole purpose of having an excuse to never have to make introductions. I stood in front of my wardrobe in a towel, hair properly assembled by leave-in conditioner (and the hyper-sensitive noses I was about to meet would just have to DEAL with its manly coconut aroma). I had a pair of khakis that were basically new, but I also had a nicer pair of black dress-slacks, or would that be overdoing it? The dark blue button-down held no contest – and I would be leaving the snakebite studs and ear-gauges behind, but tactfully keep in the eyebrow barbells because we want to be honest about just what type of queer the prodigal Cullen son is bringing home, don't we?

Black slacks might have run the risk of gothy cliche, but the overshirt was too dark to match the khakis, and any collective of denim was torn, acid-wash or too baggy to wear to an introduction. I couldn't exactly get away with throwing a blazer over a band tee and rocking the runway model aire like Edward fucking Cullen, now could I? (FIRST WORLD PROLLEM, AMIRITE?)

It was with some relief that I found my hair was indeed long enough to scrounge into a small ponytail, though bits still fell forward into my face and hell to the fucking yes that was a good look on me. Khakis won the vote, but only because I do so hate cliche - and I decided on the Beatles tee but wore the button-up half undone to cover my flabby gut. (And it is just a LITTLE bit of a gut, too, probably something I could rid myself of with a few sit-ups; ohgodwhut I am already planning – le gasp – self-improvement! What has this whole boyfriend business done to meeee?) Now roll up the sleeves, abstain from the aftershave, and you have learned well, young Padawan...

I had supposed that the bustle downstairs had just been the usual kitchen faire of dinner-time conversation, probably with Edward covertly sneaking his food back to the serving plate when Charlie wasn't watching, the poor guy. The scene I walked in on, however, sank a cold rock in my gut.

Billy Black had dropped by to cash in on his parting promise to help consume the famous gourmet of dear Mr. Clearwater. His wheelchair was propped up to the kitchen table beside the chair Jacob Black had taken up, Charlie at the stove. For a moment I tasted sour panic at the idea that Edward had left, but he was leaning against the counter beside the doorway out of immediate sight, still and quiet.

"Heya Burns," Jake's cheerful greeting broke the tension, and Charlie nearly deflated in relief.

"Oh there you are, Chuck. I was afraid you'd fallen in." His voice said 'genial dad' but his eyes held the same kind of panic I'd been feeling – a proper boyfriend-y situation? WAT DO? I can't imagine Billy had made it any easier, glaring openly at Edward while Jake attempted to distract his father with a full plate. Charlie finished washing up at the sink and nodded to the serving platter piled high with the day's catch. "You gonna eat before you head out, or...?"

We both glanced Edward's way. I could understand the dilemma, since the Cullens weren't going to have conventional food – but an invite to dinner would make more sense as far as cover-stories went and I for one didn't want to stay in that kitchen any longer than was necessary. (But I had been left hungry from the rousing day out on the lake, rawrg.)

"We're having pot-roast," Edward offered smooth-as-you-please, detaching from the counter to join me in the doorway. "I'm sure Esme would appreciate it if you could join us for dinner."

I very nearly felt Billy throw a silent apoplectic fit at the table, and caught a bit of suspicion creeping into Jake's watchful eyes as well.

"Yeah well, that would... yeah. Hi, Jake." A nod. "Mr. Black. Sorry I can't stay and chat, but we've got a roast to catch." A laugh that sounded fake even to my own ears.

"Right, so," Charlie stepped forward, shaking Edward's hand. "Edward. Curfew's ten o'clock, you two." A half-hug for me, Charlie's other hand occupied by a fresh beer. "But you can drop him off earlier than that if he gives you any trouble." A wink, and I'd be appropriately embarrassed if I wasn't so busy just then being appropriately intimidated by Billy's unwavering stare-down.

"I'll keep that in mind." Edward smiled indulgently, giving me a serious case of the stomach-flutters. To my continued and supreme BAFFLEMENT, he then took my hand so that we might depart the kitchen's tension at last. I waved as I left the doorway, tugged through the living room and out into the bracing air of the porch, forgetting my jacket entirely as the screen door slammed shut after us.

"Holy shit man, I am _so sorry _about that."

Edward steered me down the steps, glancing back toward the house with shadows in his eyes. "That was crossing a line."

I breathe in, patient. "Nobody is crossing any lines. They're old friends of the family." Old friends who Edward had confirmed knew of his secret. Which made shit awkward for me, as Billy had taken up Charlie's slack in the over-protective father-type role by way of the Sheriff's ignorance. Eesh.

"You couldn't _hear_ the things he was thinking." A furious shake of the head. "You don't belong to them any more than you belong to me, yet he stakes this _claim _like he doesn't want me anywhere near – " A growled huff, Edward dropping my hand to pace ahead to his car.

"Oh, right right right. The whole territory feud. Thingamabob." Could we talk about anything else? "Oh holy shit – " I stagger against the side of the car, eyes wide in the attempt of fake innocence over Edward's obvious concern. "Montagues and fucking Capulets!" Open-mouth, manic-monkey grin over hands clutching the air because 'do want'.

Edward tries not to smile. He fails. He's about to climb into the car but glances sharply up, expression storming over the way it like-to-do. I look to the house; there's nothing special going on that I could tell. Everyone was still in the kitchen, most likely. After a pause, the car is finally breached. I take a deep breath, let it out, and shut the door with a muffled slam.

"The child has no idea." Edward's knuckles are white in their grip around the seatbelt.

I scoff, getting comfortable the way I like-to-do, "Watch who you're calling a child, dude. Jake's only a year younger than me."

"Oh? You know he harbors a bit of an infatuation?"

I snort, "Get that from his inner monologue, did you?" I stretch back, my joints and spine cracking blissfully as I stretch my arms up over the back of the seat. "What can I say, I'm a popular guy."

"I'd say you were, yes. You tend to catch eyes in the school hall, too." A tension of annoyance in the set of his mouth as he maneuvers the car free of Charlie's driveway. "Obliviously, of course."

"Yeah? Like who?" I sit up straighter, ego so magnificently well-fed. "I mean, you know, other than you." I pretend to preen in the rearview mirror, and Edward nudges me back to my seat with a small laugh.

Edward is a little too much Tom-Cruise-crazy-eyes as he hits the steering wheel and curses under his breath. "How you ruin my ill moods!" Laughing, but maybe kinda angry? I don't even. "And here I'd read of jealousy, and thought I knew its sting well enough. Never." Shaking his head, eyes glued to the road as we drive. "Never like this, never so _genuine_. I'd confront Newton directly, but he's done a fine job of making an ass of himself without my help."

"Woah, woah! _Mike_?"

"As I've said. You catch eyes, Bernardo. Obliviously."

"So..." I'm tallying on my fingers, because this is news. This is big news. "Angela, Jake, Mike... Lauren?"

Edward shakes his head, grinning like a cat who knew it was highest on the walk. "The Sarah girl."

"What! Ahahaha, ah, come on man, who else?"

Edward clears his throat. "What's the use in telling? I'm only naming those who have made their thoughts obvious." An inclination of his head, and the lecture returns to the drop of his voice, "It isn't really fair of me to pick up everyone's secrets and hand them to you as if gift-wrapped, tidied of the stain of their emotions." I kinda want him to slap my wrists with a ruler and wear a fucking bow tie or some trendy thick-frame glasses or some shit, hngg.

Shaking out of my reverie, "Right, I don't have to deal with the barrage of their mental vomit, so I don't get know. That's fair." I settle back into my seat and pull the belt over into its buckle. "Jealous though, you? _Really_?"

"You've a history with the Jacob boy; he knows a great deal about you that I don't."

"Uh," I wince, "Yeah, like a _totally_ platonic like, history. As in, he's practically family. And a total dweeb, and... you're right, maybe he_ is_ just a kid." I chew the inside of my cheek, kicking my feet up on the dash.

"He is a child in both knowledge and experience. Ephraim's descendants often wait twenty, thirty years to introduce their children to the dynamics of our pact. It is by treaty alone that the tribe finds itself allowed to _know_ of us; they'd be better off forgetting as soon as humanly possible."

"You think?"

"We're in the fiction category for a reason, Bernardo."

"Oh, right." I wiggle my fingers at the road. "The Masquerade ~!"

"The what?"

"You know. 'An endless masquerade', 'you must protect the masquerade'...? The front you gotta put up because no super-human abilities could actually amount to fuck-all if people really wanted to get rid of you?"

"Um. That's." Edward chews over his choice of words for a moment. "Accurate. Read that somewhere, did you?"

"Video game."

Edward nods, mouthing 'oh', and we settle into the awkward silence of self-reflection. When we finally pull up to the long white gravel side-road (termed 'driveway' only as a functioning title), Edward is relaxed. Damn near chipper. Glancing covertly to me every ten seconds as the car crawls down the silent stretch. "You clean up well, did you know that?"

"Yes."

Edward laughs, "I am trying to compliment you. You are making it difficult."

"Mmhm, everybody cleans up well when fish-guts are involved. Can you still, like, smell them under my fingernails or something?" Because I sure as fuck could, and would be scrubbing for days to come.

"Bernardo," the ever-present exasperation, and maybe I could stand to be a little less blithe. Edward has taken his hand from the clutch to cover mine, fingertips curling over and into my palm, and I feel the swell of foreign happiness bubble up like too much beer on a friday night. "Esme really did make pot-roast. She's over the moon about having company that actually eats proper food - indulges her sense of housewifery."

"Is that even a word, housewifery?"

Without skipping a beat, "The English language was made to be improved upon."

"Tch. A-fucking-men."

A reluctant grin tugged at Edward's arch disregard, "To my original point - you've made an effort to look good for my family, and I appreciate that."

"Ah... kay?"

His hand tightened briefly around mine. "You aren't nervous?"

"I doubt I'll have to deal with the kind of shit Billy was probably giving you, but yeah. I'm marginally apprehensive about walking into a house full of blood-sucking, er, people."

"Monsters, Bernardo. The term you seek is 'monsters'."

"Well. I'm kinda the type of guy to reserve judgment until I've actually met someone. From the rumors, your family sounds kinda copacetic on the whole not-eating-people front."

"Surely not from Black's standpoint?"

"Honestly, the old man has yet to bring it up. Not directly, anyway."

"So the only information you've to go by is what you've heard from me."

"Yeah, I was kinda making a joke on the fact that you're asking."

"So you could very well be naively wandering to your own death?"

"I doubt Esme's cooking could be _that_ out of practice."

"Bernardo."

"Edward!"

"... I think they're going to like you."

Polite refusal to acknowledge crippling social liability? Of course they were going to like me. I've had this shit down to a fucking science - ever since I was old enough to know what boners were, and what did or did not give me one thereof. The house crept into view and I wondered aloud why Edward was driving so slow.

"Because I like spending time with you."

"You want me to change my mind."

A sheepish grin. "I want you to change your mind."

"Too bad, buddy. We're doing this." I braced myself as the car came to a stop, unbuckling to lean over and kiss my ~boyfriend~ on the ~mouth~. I was only trying to be obnoxious, really, but decided to go back for seconds simply because he was _letting me_. The hand that had moments before curled around my own now crept up to lay hesitantly against my neck, and Edward's cold lips part with slow enthusiasm and – saints fucking preserve – he was _tasting_ _me_. There's no other way to describe it because it wasn't a kiss in the conventional sense, where everything's all plunge and suck, no; Edward's tongue flickered over my bottom lip and for once I actually hesitated on the follow-through.

I pulled back, a little confused because we'd already established that Edward knew how to kiss to some extent; what was with the – okay he's not letting go and kissing... sort of... hngk.

"Can't take you anywhere like this." A feathery rasp against my jaw, Edward's nose brushing from ear to chin and back.

I swallow hard. "Like. Uh. Like what?" I clear my throat, peer indignantly down at him. I'd been doing just fine until he pulled this sudden!intimacy crap on me.

"You're going to have to calm down before we leave the car."

"Yeah, well. Screw you."

He tugged my hair out of its failing ponytail, casually personal. "I suppose there is a pun that begs response to that."

I chuckle, pecking his face in that obnoxious can't-stop-kissing-each-other way that some couples do before they part. "I guess they already know we're out here, hey? Bit suspect if we linger." Fffff, I was starting to talk like him. COME BACK HERE, ROGUISH LACK OF GRAMMAR.

Edward contemplates the roof of the car, then smiles. "There _is_ some concern to your safety in being left alone with me, yes. I am happy to report such." Eventually, after a bit of peeling away and coming back together and laughing departure, Edward manages to exit the car - circling to open my door.

I stand to join Edward, waffling between taking his hand or not, between slouching or keeping upright, and maybe not walking with my hands in my pockets, or how I could ever quell the tremble in my stomach and the giddy light-headedness normally associated with bug-eyed alcoholism. Edward drew no key from his pocket, entered no security code in the alarm system (who was going to rob that household, anyway? Some sort of fucking _unfortunate_ asshole, that's who.) Edward smiled tightly, biting his bottom lip as, for the second time, he pulled me over the threshold to the expansive Cullen home.


	17. ONLY SEVENTEEEEN

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN:** Meeting the Kennedys

* * *

There was a large table where a table hadn't been before, just outside the open kitchen, new patina and the fresh stink of a department store filling in the gaps in the air, between the savory roast and the more familiar potpourri. There were chairs staggered high-back around the new table, at which sat a collective of Edward's siblings. A jovial greeting rang from the kitchen to narrate the Cullen matriarch's entrance, like a Stepford wife, and that's as rude as I'll get describing the woman. The hair, the apron... _that dress, _like she stepped out of a _Good Housekeeping_ or _Betty Crocker_ magazine - all toothy smile and red lipstick and pearl earrings.

"You must be Charlie," she offered a small, pale hand for me to shake, smiling so warmly that the round of her cheeks crowded her eyes into glittering slits. I was a bit startled to hear my nickname, so used to Edward calling me Bernardo that I'd figured that's what his family would know me by. "I'm Esme Cullen, and you already know Edward of course." A musical laugh, and I mumbled a return greeting. Esme fluffs her dark hair and takes a glance around the diningroom. "Let's see, have you been properly introduced? There's Emmett here at the table, and next to him is Jasper, of course, oh and Rosalie, she's our beauty..." A finger to her delicate chin, hip propped out like she was counting all 99 dalmatian puppies. "Now, I know Alice is around here somewhere."

Emmett was the only one who hadn't nodded indulgently to the introductions, squaring his jaw as Rosalie spoke up beside him in a lazy Chicago drawl, "She's probably upstairs, mollying-on at Carlisle." If Rosalie had a cigarette at that point, she'd probably have tapped the ash and taken a long drag, eyes closed against her own ennui - that was just how fucking cool she was. Instead, she did that little head-tilt women seem to be fond of, like they're admitting their own knowledge with extreme reluctance and like you should be fucking grateful they even deigned to speak.

There was a gap in the conversation, so I supplied: "Yeah, Al is a good friend of mine already. We're both in theater."

Esme approached, never blinking. "Oh? Which theater? Surely not the war?" Her bright smile seemed a little sadder to me now, a mask of contentment hiding something confused, something out of place in this era.

"The follies theater. It's a club," Edward offered gently, taking Esme by the elbow. "At school." He steered her toward the kitchen.

Esme giggled behind her small hand and shooed Edward away, stepping elegantly back to the stove to retrieve a boiling pot. "You've all got forty minutes to wash up," she announced in a sing-song tone, brandishing a wooden spoon over at the table of her imaginary children. And fuck me, that's exactly what this was – a dollhouse, a play, all pressed slacks and flawless haircuts – _what Esme kept so painstakingly glued together_. Edward's defiant statement hadn't crossed my mind again until this night, and why that choice of words? Glued together, like every few years it would break and need to be repaired. What Carlisle had built...

"Charlie!" Alice called from the top of the far staircase, bounding down the steps two at a time and rushing over to give me a rib-cracking hug. "You totally actually came!"

I laughed, returning the fierce hug, content to ignore the onlookers as they were to ignore me. "I totally actually came, yeah!" I picked Alice up, spun her around and set her back to her feet. "How's things?"

Alice grinned, all teeth showing. "Things is good, man. Things is good." She playfully slugged me on the arm.

Rosalie spoke up once again, and I noted that Jasper had left the room without announcement. "Alice was fairly excited when she heard we were having you..." a sultry glower, "for dinner."

Fffuck me, I _laughed_. That shit was sooo b-movie villain and I couldn't imagine it was all for my benefit.

"Rose has a flair for the _dramatic_." Edward ground out beside me, accepting Alice's greeting hug with the same detachment one would pet a dog. He was quick to let her go, and she frowned.

"Carlisle wants to speak with you."

Edward crossed his arms. "I know."

"Carlisle wants to speak with you, _now_."

"I _know._"

Alice drew up short, but shrugged. She turned to me as if to change the topic, but her starting words were interrupted when Edward suddenly spasmed and clutched his side as if he'd been punched. Face ashen, he shrugged off my concern and staggered toward the stairs Alice had descended. Well. What the fuck.

"Told you," Alice taunted under her breath, wandering to flop moodily into a dining chair.

"They're having a tiff," Rosalie provided in a stage-whisper. "An unsettlement. A row." Narrowing her eyes over a coquettish grin.

Emmett gave a scoff, shoving away from the table. "Would you stop making that face at him?"

"What face?" Rosalie sat up straighter as if she was the naughty nun who had just been goosed by her unruly pupil. She turned to me, glowering. "This face?" Her expression melted into an expression I could only describe as cheap-porno 'wicked delight', voice going raspy and gleeful to match. "Or this one?"

Alice looked only as uncomfortable as I felt, protesting, "You aren't seriously trying what I think you're trying."

"She is," Emmett spat, leaving the table altogether and storming out.

"Now Rose," Esme's scorn still held the gentility of the proud mother. "It's rude to show off."

"Apparently I'm not showing off at all," Rosalie frowned at me as I took a chair for myself across from Al. "You really are impervious. Laaame."

I shrug. "'S no big. What were you trying to do, exactly?"

"I can _fascinate_. Often works best on men." Something in the way Rosalie said 'men', as if I didn't exactly qualify (which, you know, stung my big fat gaybutt pride). She gave a despondent sigh, her long blonde lashes fluttering. "I honestly don't understand all the fuss. It's _boring_ when you can't play along."

Esme approached with an armful of plates, tone suddenly sober, grounded. "I rather think the point, Rose, is that we're the cheaters and young Charlie here is the _only one_ with whom we are forced to play fair. Now," She claps her hands, slightly empty grin returning. "Come help me set the table, girls. No no, you stay right there - " a hand held up to stop me from being useful. "You're our _guest_." A mock-scorn. Perish the thought I actually have manners! Gff.

Aaand THEN Doctor Carlisle Cullen, in the flesh, was sitting at the head of the table, right at my elbow. There then here. He neatened the silverware in front of him as Alice set it, sniffing down his nose at the festive wicker tablemats without meeting my eyes.

"Dr. Cullen," I offered as genially as possible, surprise still evident in my tone. "It's a beautiful home you've got."

"A beautiful home is nothing without a beautiful family to fill it," Carlisle replied archly. He was so flinty, a stark throw from his usual doctorly demeanor.

I meet Carlisle's eyes only briefly before dropping my gaze, stomach cold. Fiddle with the burgundy cloth napkin, slipping it in its decorative ring to make a pleated fan.

"Oh, Charlie, that's so pretty!" Esme swept to the table with a pitcher in hand, bending to kiss Carlisle on the cheek and pat his shoulder consolingly. As if _he_ was the one about to get the terrifying father-to-boyfriend third degree. "Where did you learn that?"

"My mother, Renee. Used to work in the Old Grand down at the port. They folded their towels like this."

"It's a seashell, then?"

I smiled, sheepish. "Yeah."

"Yes," Carlisle cut in. At my puzzled silence; "'Yes', young man. Not 'yeah'. Not at table." Okay, so here it was. Male posturing, and the parental figure testing his authority. Textbook bullshittery.

This is me one-upping: "Yes, sir." Did you see it? It's right there, the one-upmanship, in the passive-agressive additive of extraneous formality! I even throw in a dutiful nod, because fuck yeah I got this proper boyfriend-y shit _on point_.

Esme puckered herself into a full-body pout, slapping at the shoulder she had moments before been assuring. "Oo, don't give the boy so hard a time." I watched as she disappeared back into the safety zone, where Rosalie and Alice seemed to orbit wordlessly as they set the table.

Carlisle leaned on his elbow, smiling apologetically. "How is the head, Bernardo?"

"Uhm, fine. Sir."

"No residual confusion...? Hearing remains unaffected?"

"Yes. I mean no, but like, yes that there's none of that. Thanks." A quiet amendment, "Thank you."

"Hmm." Carlisle brushed imagined lint from one of the napkins. "I should wonder, if that is the case - I should wonder why then you hear the phrase 'bloodsucking monsters' and march ever forward despite its meaning." Not letting me get a word in, "At first I assumed you merely concussed. Perhaps a little dazed. He is an affable young man, quick to forgive," The curl of reluctance in the set of his mouth. "When he wants to be. Obviously that's had no effect on you either way, so what _exactly _are you doing here?"

"Um."

"Speak up; one mustn't mumble."

I shrug, voice a little weaker than I'd like it to be. "I like Edward."

"Would he hold your fascination, I wonder, if he weren't so different from his peers?"

I laugh, nervous, biting back the obscenity. _Fuck_, "Yes, haha." A sudden drop in the pit of my stomach, and I take a metaphorical step back – _would_ I like Edward Cullen if he were just some guy? "...Yeah. I mean yes, Dr. Cullen. I really would." I really actually would. Hm. Weird.

Carlisle's smile defrosts, finally. "You're a very... _honest _young man, aren't you?" For some reason it half sounds like an insult, but I nod. Carlisle sighs through his nose. "I needn't explain to you the danger you pose to us, need I?"

"Well yeah - yes. I mean no, you don't have to tell me." I rub the back of my neck, finding sweat had beaded above the collar of my t-shirt. "But what's the point in all this -" I gesture with a floppy wrist, settling my hand back in my lap like a bird gone to ground. "If you aren't actually going to hang out with the 'peasants'? No offense dude, I mean I dig the whole humanitarian bend like woah. But you could all just live in like Tibet, on a mountain, and I imagine it'd be a damn sight easier, right?" I think I've offended with my babble, but Carlisle shrugs a concession.

"I'd prefer to live a more open life, though I'm afraid it is not yet the hour for such revolutionist ideal. We might know the 'peasants' of the situation, and live among them to an extent, but we must do so invisibly, beneath a facade. You understand?"

"Yes I do, sir."

"Well," Carlisle leans back at last. "Good. Edward is lucky to have a friend so stout."

Dude. Did he just call me fat? ...Did he just call me Edward's _friend_? "Dr. Cullen,"

"Please, call me Carlisle." Finally on a first-name basis. The victory was small and sour.

"Right. Carlisle," I breathe, frown down at the table as it fills with dishes of food; pot roast the centerpiece of the modest display. I don't notice Rosalie and Emmet's return until I'm halfway through my next thought. "I'm not Edward's friend." Rosalie takes her seat and leans forward, surprise genuine and maybe a little delighted that I wasn't all that boring after all, who knows. They were probably all cracked. Carlisle is frowning clinically, eyebrows raised. There was no other way to put it, "I'm his boyfriend."

Thunderous. Silence.

Esme takes up Alice's vacated seat, eyes wide like a kitten's. "You're courting Edw – " his names tumbles into a breathless grin, and her shoulders hitch up like she'd been offered a trip to Disneyland.

"_Courting_?" Carlisle's disbelief is sharp, but his consternation wavers, crumbling into a grin that he politely hides behind a fist. "I'm... I'm sorry." He tries to sober, fails, laughing in sharp barks. "Well," clearing his throat. "Well that explains much." Carlisle departs the table with a waved apology, probably off to collect his fucking manners because apparently the announcement had scattered them to the four fucking winds. Asshole.

Jasper is beside Emmett now, elbowing him as he sits. "Fifty."

Emmett scowls, "No, hang on -" stabs a finger at me as he asks "which one of you is the -" yelps like a kicked moose. Edward is there, grip crushing Emmett's pointing hand.

"You aren't. Asking." His grip tightens, and I swear I can hear the bones creak. "That."

At Esme's slightest hiss of disapproval, Edward releases his oh-so-very hetero-normative sibling. I catch Jasper at a rare smile, offering me a wink over his folded hands. Well! What the actual fuck.

"Jesus _christ_, Ed, there's a solid Grant K on the line here!" New Jersey really shines through in Emmett's protest as he shakes his wounded hand out.

The family was making all the right dinner-time motions around the table by then, scooting chairs and leaning over plates to talk – everything as much normal without food as it might have been with, uninterrupted by the call for saying grace over the meal (a thing I had been expecting, prepared for even). Edward and Alice had taken up position on either side of me, Alice guessing at the contents of each dish as they passed her way. It was kinda cute, like maybe a game they were playing to see who could deduce the most by smell alone? Well I mean, how else were they gonna amuse themselves if they couldn't eat any of it?

"Don't take any potatoes," Alice leaned in to whisper. I pass the dish and plead silently for an explanation. Alice shrugs, toying with her fork. "Esme means well. She reeeally wants you to join our family. Strychnine in the pudding too," In a hushed tone, just as Esme came from the kitchen bearing the tainted desert.

Aaand I... am suddenly on a diet, thank you Madame Munchhausen! The roast was good, though. Not too dry. I mean, I'd already committed to a few bites by then so there was no point starving myself over a little motherly derangement, hey? Edward's careful proximity suddenly didn't seem so overbearing, and as I took a deep gulp of the hopefully _nonpoisonous _glass of milk, I caught a look between he and Alice that conveyed his gratitude and her exasperation.

Rosalie's sneer cuts through the chatter around the table, interrupting the furtive argument between Jasper and Emmett to point a spoon first at one, then the other. "You bet fifty _thousand_ dollars of _our_ vacation money!-?" The spoon is stabbed clean through the wood of the table as she stands. "Over whether or not Edward was _gay?_"

I inhale a brusselsprout and cough it back up against the inside of my teeth.

Edward stands, wrenching the spoon carefully free only to turn it Emmett's way – slowly, in deliberation. His voice is quiet. "I. Am _not_ –"

I'm not even thinking, really, when I reach over to take Edward's wrist. I hadn't expected such a circus at the Cullen/Hale household, but I _had _been ready for this part. My fingers slide down against Edward's palm and I squeeze his hand, staring at the half-eaten dinner for which I no longer had an appetite. I glance up once, twice, staying put on the third go. Edward shakes his head, a small movement, eyes wide and soft despite the iron set of his jaw.

I guess that was that, then.

I drop our gaze and his hand, then stand. "Well Esme, thank you for such a lovely dinner."

"You'd think they were raised by wolves," Esme laughs to cover her embarrassment, gliding up from her seat, tossing her napkin down like the bang of a judge's gavel. "How about some coffee? We can have it in the parlor." She bustles me away from the spectacle at the dining table, and I let her usher me through a paneled door to a room secluded from the eruption of bickering and (I imagine) physical violence that had been put on hold by my unusual stunt.

Esme leaves me in a closed-off room of shelves and book collections, sitting tables and chaise lounges. I am morbidly amused when Esme returns with a tea tray featuring two cups of coffee and one silver biscuit tray – on which there sat a thin slice of the heavy english pudding she had prepared. It must have been chocolate, to compliment the rat poison. She arranges the spread on the nearest antique coffee table and I take a seat on the accompanying couch but make no move toward the refreshments.

"Here we go," Esme closes the door against the melodious crash of a breaking dinner plate, hefting a large portfolio from a curio cabinet - that which could only be a photo album, and despite the whole trying-to-kill-me thing I sit forward eagerly as she spreads the book open between our laps. "This is me," an old polaroid, yellowed and dim. "And this is me, meeting the Kennedys." Smiling, familiar faces and her small pale hand disappearing into Mr. President's grasp. "You know they didn't have celebrities back then the way they have them now. We celebrated the fame of our government officials like Britannia celebrated its royal family; isn't that funny?"

I lean back to frown thoughtfully. "Yeah, that's pretty amazing."

"Oh, but that's just history. Not what you want to see _at all_." Esme hums happily, flipping through the thick pages, the tome perfumed by aging plastic sleeves and the chemical tang of polaroid. "Here we are. Isn't he handsome?"

I chuckle over a picture of Carlisle reading at a desk, supahfly in his flare-bottom jeans and rocking the fuck out of some mutton chops. Below that is a picture of Rosalie, hair long and straight over a blue tie-dye blouse, statuesque in the static profile of a school picture.

"You know who else was handsome?" Esme's voice drops conspiratorially and she turns the page, cooing as she reveals the next batch of photos. "Oo, there's our young man." Edward looks off-frame in a clingy navy turtleneck, bell-bottoms and converse chucks and poofy hair and everything. _Fucking ace_. "I daresay we were the most stylish family in all of Alaska."

"Alaska?"

"No sun half the year you know," Esme leans back to nod, waiting for me to prove some modicum of understanding. I nod in return, and she happily leans over the album to turn another page. "Now let's see... Edward wasn't around for much of these photos, but oh! Look, here's Carlisle getting his official doctorate, and this is when Rose met Emmet - I mean after he woke up. You know." Whispered, "after the bear." Another page, another set of school photos, Alice in a hair ribbon and Jasper in a pair of aviators. "I shan't think Carlisle would have welcomed Emmett to our household were it not for that bear. He only ever does as a last resort, the sympathetic thing. Eat your pudding, dear."

"No thank you. I'm, ah, watching my figure." Cough. "What was your 'last resort', if you don't mind me asking?"

Esme dimples at me, her expression falling to the thousand-yard stare of memory. "I lost a child." Another page turned, carefully as if she were reading it for some clue on how to word her answer properly. "He was so small," an embarrassed laugh, "that they couldn't even find the right size coffin. So, I decided we'd be buried together in one great big pine box, and drove my father's mule cart off a cliff." Her soft voice hardens into the woman who had reprimanded Rosalie at the dinner table, "They didn't even call him to take a look at me. Just shunted me straight to the morgue to wait for the end. I thought he meant to finish me off as a mercy." The album is slammed shut. "Turns out he harbors a different definition of mercy than I." An awkward silence. How does one respond to _that_? I'm sorry for your loss? "Your coffee, son. It's getting cold."

"Right." I stare at the gleaming mug, take it carefully between clammy palms. "Right, so ah... how did you two build up this family, exactly?"

"Oh, that _is_ a good story; I don't get to tell it nearly often enough." Esme stands, trading one album for another and rejoining me on the couch. I set the coffee back to its tray while her back is turned. This book is newer, but the images protected by their laminate are much, much older. "It wasn't long after Edward left that Carlisle found me, in 1926. We weren't married of course; I'd only just met the man. We weren't married for many years, actually, but it just didn't seem _right_ after a while, what with Edward returned and Alice in our little group by then."

Esme sighs, and the photos beneath her fingers feature _things_, artfully posed houseplants, landscapes, new (what would now be antique) cars, houses lit up with christmas lights in the dark and the snow. Edward, wearing a muffler and holding a Huskie, unsmiling beside Alice, who held a puppy to her neck. "This was 1951, the night Carlisle brought Rosie home. I had such high hopes for those two, but Edward, he's... well, _you_ know." She turns to me with a laugh. "I'm so very glad, you see. I've been _terrified_ at the idea, that Edward might have been changed at too young an age - some boys take longer to grow into that than others, you know, and he never showed _any_ sort of interest, and then of course there's his _condition_ which makes him _flighty_." She clucks her tongue, "Not that I would trade Emmett for the world, but at the time, well, we just wanted Edward to have a reason to _stay _with us, you know? It's always the popular children who grow distant." She flaps her hand and wipes an imagined tear from under her eye.

"So you figured Edward was, what? Undeveloped?" Not funny, not funny, not funny... (pffftAHAHA)

"I didn't figure much about Edward, honestly. He was young and unhappy, and I thought, at that time, that he was determined to make himself miserable. They share that in common, he and Carlisle; you know those two are _so much_ alike, so of course they are constantly _fighting_!" An exasperated laugh, all teeth showing. "It's come to the point where they refuse to be in the same room as the other, did you see that? And of course Edward is so darn _enigmatic_ that there's no making him happy even if you _want_ to." She reaches up to delicately slide the pudding tray towards me. "He likes you, though." Another incremental nudge. "Mothers notice these sort of things."

"Well! And I like him, ma'am, so I'm going to go ahead and see if he isn't done throttling Emmett – " I stand, carefully closing the album on the couch and turning toward the door. I brace myself all the way across the room, cautiously cracking the door to the silence beyond. "It was good talking to you, Esme."

"And a pleasure for me as well, Charlie." She's taken up her coffee mug as if in salute. I close the door after myself.

Edward is contemplative at an empty, clean table. The kitchen had been put to rights as well, dinner mats stowed over the scar Rosalie's spoon had made in the tabletop. Edward turns to me, forcing a smile. "Sorry about the strychnine. She only wants what she assumes is best."

I tiptoe over (because it just seemed like the proper precaution to take at that moment, idon'tevenfuckingknow), turning a chair half from the table so I could sit and put both hands on Edward's thigh. "Wow, dude. Just... wow."

Edward's smile is a little more genuine this time around, warm and knowing. "What?"

"Do you still have those bell-bottoms?"

He chuffs a laugh, "No, but I've still got the weskit and a set of wool trousers from the 30s."

I pull a face, "Meh," tap my fingers down the length of his thigh to his knee, then lightly slap him on the arm. "Did you win?"

Edward pulls his attention from the far corner of the room, hahah space cadet. "Did I win what?"

"The epic throw-down."

A frown, "Not exactly." Edward stands, and I watch him stand because nobody's around to see me leering. "Carlisle wants to speak with you. At length." He looks about as uncomfortable over that idea as I feel. "I'm to be in attendance."

"Don't wanna be in the same room as your asshole vampire dad? Bummer."

There are about twenty different smiles I've catalogued for this dude so far, and this one is his I'm-glad-you're-such-a-spaz. "We can take our time." A bitter undercurrent, "I have permission to show you the rest of the house."

"All right." I stand, one hand in my pocket and the other sweeping toward the westbound staircase. "Lead the way."


	18. EIGHTEEN AND I LIKE IT

**: X :**

_They eventually get to Carlisle, I promise! Thanks  
to all who are keeping up and sounding off – I  
couldn't have gotten this far without knowing an  
audience out there, somewhere, was having as  
much fun as I._

_Lemoneeee._

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:** Trapdoor Confessions

* * *

You don't really wanna hear about the Cullen residence; it's big, mkay? It's big and there are a lot of rooms with many shelves – Edward hadn't been kidding when he'd called it a museum. We paced through the ground floor, potted plants and ming vases lining halls, books on endtables and walls dotted with old lamps. Much of the exterior walls were taken up by large bay windows, so you'd turn a corner and find yourself facing the Sol Duc river or a swath of dark forest.

One room held a grand piano under all its clutter, Edward wielding a dust rag at its lacquered surface before sitting to pick out a tune I was startled to recognize.

"Going to keep that one, eh?" I had leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him repair the broken melody on healthy strings.

The song gained cadence, depth – by the time he was really into it, Rosalie had joined me at the door. She nods over my shoulder, "Hasn't played in years." Her intelligent blue eyes flick back to me. "Used to play for me."

I swallow.

"And now Rose is going to pretend to be jealous –" Edward states over his shoulder, watching the piano keys. "Just for the excuse to bully you."

"I don't need any excuses to bully anyone." Rosalie is beyond me without brushing past, seated at the piano and crossing her bobbie-brooks legs at the ankles. "And nobody is jealous, seeing as you two aren't even..." She gazes down at the floor as if there's a dog turd in the middle of the persian carpet.

"Rose."

Rosalie tilts her head back, exposing a milky white stretch of throat. "Edward." Her expression changes, but she isn't speaking out loud.

Edward's shoulders grow tense, he hits a sour note and shakes his head.

"Oh, come on!" Rosalie suddenly whines, "We were saving that money for Europe!"

"I'd pay Emmett and Jasper both the sum just to give me some _peace_." Edward has stopped playing by now, carefully folding the key guard shut with a soft clack. "Is that what you're asking?"

Rosalie stands as he does, then, inspired, turns as if she's remembered my presence. "Charlie," she coos.

"Nooo," I don't know what I'm turning down yet, but I sure as fuck am turning it down. "I just came for the food." A tight smile.

Rose half-laughs, glancing between me and Edward like she's just been outmatched. "Oh come on, kid." Chicago and not even kidding. "You'll get Emmett's half if you can tell one teensy, weensy little lie..."

Woooow, so at least Rose knew what the score really was. I clear my throat. "Would that reestablish harmony in the Cullen household, really? Or would it just make things like ten times worse?"

Edward is silent beside Rosalie's deer-in-the-headlights surprise, glowering the way he does.

"Interesting that you think it's your concern." Rosalie nods, re-evaluating me from head to toe.

"Yeah, okay," I stand from the doorframe, crossing into the room. Time to rescue my stupid closety boyfriend, _again_. My hands go out in an expressive implore, "Here's the thing, toots. I dig that you're all pretty old fashioned, hey? Probably because you're all pretty, you know, _old_." Rosealie's eyes narrow dangerously. "But it's the goddamn twenty-first century and we don't use labels anymore." Judging by his expression, I've impressed Edward. Hell, I've impressed myself. "So, uh, y'know." A jittery shrug. "Amscray."

You'd think I'd just cracked open one of the hurricane lamps and set myself on fire, as wide as Rosalie's eyes were. Edward, front-seat purveyor of everyone's innermost mental theatrics, is now hastily walking me back through the door and closing it after us. I don't want him to remove his hand from the small of my back, but he does.

I look at Edward. Slowly, he looks back at me, the ghost of a smile forming. His gratitude is interrupted by some invisible upset, chin jerking up. He glares at the ceiling, absently reaching for my arm. "We ought continue the tour."

"Yeah, can't imagine I made too good an impression just now."

"Yeah..." Edward's distraction trickles back to me. "Oh, what? No, Rosalie's fine. She likes you, if only because Emmett, ah..."

"Doesn't?"

"I suppose Emmett is just confused by you. A sentiment I share." Edward tugs at a piece of my hair and then tucks it behind my ear. I grab the offending hand and duck under his arm, catching him by the waist. We are staggering toward the front of the house when the melody follows us, something cheerful and bright coming from the piano we'd left behind. Edward smiles wistfully down at me. "Try to forgive Rose. Little sisters have a wont to monopolize."

"So what's her deal, then? How did somebody as glam as Rosalie Hale end up on the bad end of Carlisle's mercy? Classic teenhood car crash? Case of the consumptions?"

Edward's smile dissolves. "It's not really my place to tell you that. Her end wasn't a good one."

"I don't think anybody's 'end' is ever going to be a good one, Ed. Not unless it's like one of those exit-scenes where you die peacefully in your sleep surrounded by grandbabies."

"Interesting sentiment."

"Been hearing that a lot."

"Regardless," we've come to the stairs, and Edward parts the half-hearted grapple in order to climb. "What happened _before _her end, that is, it was... rather, a perfect example of basic human cruelty."

"Okay, it's none of my business, gotcha. But come on then, what exactly are Alice and Jasper doing here, if they weren't recruited by Carlisle?"

"I just needed a place to sleep for a few years," Alice pops up from behind a closed door, kicking it wide and standing with her hands propped on her hips like something out of Marvel or DC. "Why don't you come hang out with me for a few minutes while Ed and Carlisle talk a bit?"

I look to Edward, eyebrow raised.

"I am startled you ask permission, Bernardo. I'm beginning to suspect you are not entirely without self-preservation this evening, hm?"

"Double negative in that question, buddy. _Grammar_, sheesh." I lightly punch Edward's shoulder as we drift apart. "Holler if you need me." Big fat fucking chance, but I wanted to be generous. I follow Alice down the hall, asking after the house's surplus of thick mahogany doors.

"Soundproofing." Alice rolls her eyes back at me, and come to think on it I couldn't hear the piano any longer. "It's no use with Edward the way he is, but for the rest of us, we keep the houses big and we make the walls thick. You have no _idea _how annoying it is –" she draws up short, lets out a puff of air and spins on heel, grinning wide. "Nevermind. We make do." She falls back against yet another door, this one decorated with a Carmina Burana poster. "Come on in, kiddo."

Being addressed like that was going to get real old real quick, but I suppose it served to remind me that I wasn't actually hanging out with a bunch of teenaged classmates just then. I bet it was equally exasperating, being treated as someone less than your hundred-plus years as an accident of appearance. Alice's room looked far more lived-in and personalized than Edward's, bean-bag chairs and throw-pillows, a hookah pipe in the far corner, the walls covered with theater posters. The carpet underfoot was dark shag, O to the M to the G. I think I even saw a lava lamp behind a stack of Rolling Stone. I am encouraged to take my shoes off, kick back and hang out in so many words.

The glass wall her room shared with this side of the house exposed a balcony, curved to accommodate a nearby tree. Against the oh-so-_moderne _steel balustrade leaned Jasper Hale, who beckoned us outside just as I was getting my shoes off.

"Y'look like you could use a cigarette." Jasper drawled as the glass door was slid open, humor barely contained behind the glint of his warm brown eyes. This dude was incredibly unsettling in a way I didn't expect to be able to pin down, all Quaker cowboy with his shaggy blonde curls and tattered thermal shirtsleeves drawn low over his knuckles; but he took a small pouch from his vest pocket and began to roll his own damn tobacco, so a cigarette I would mos' def' accept.

"Does this really have any effect on you guys? The nicotine?"

"Naw," Jasper greets Alice wordlessly with a complicated handshake high-five fist-bump that is the cutest fucking thing I had seen all week. "But the smoke takes the edge off; can't scent nothin' through it, see?" After lighting the cigarette, Jasper passes it to me. I'm assuming it's some sort of, what, courtesy or something for my benefit, not being able to 'scent' my delicious, delicious bloodfoodies, so uh. There's a blank nod taking over for that response.

I take the cigarette with heartfelt 'thanks', savoring the aromatic first pull before sending a smoke ring to wobble and stretch through the cool spring night. Alice dimples, but appears distracted by any goings-on in the house which remained out of my perception.

"Everything cool in there?" I try to sound a little less like the freaking Sheriff, and punctuate my concern with a tap of ash. Alice's expression falters, but she offers no answer. "Soo..." Why couldn't we be talking about great things, like Carmina Burana or Gogol Bordello? I snagged the first question that came to mind, eager to dispel the tension of the evening's conflict. "Am I - I mean, I'm not interrupting your evening or anything?"

Jasper's eyebrows go all pinchy and his voice is rough with the question, "Our evenin'?"

"Yeah, you and -" I point, "Al's. Evening." Voice going small, "With each other. Together?"

An immediate and incredulous protest from the both of them, "Dude, th' fuck?" "Oh no, Charlie, no no no." "Really?" "No, hahaha. Ew."

Jasper pulled his mouth back at Alice's continued 'do not want', ducking behind a cupped palm in attempt to (unsuccessfully) light a newly rolled cigarette of his own.

"He doesn't... I don't. No." Alice finishes, smiling in relief. "I guess you got that idea watching Rose and Emmett?"

I nod, kind of laughing a little because awww, Jasper, _buddy_, she said 'ew'.

Jasper is having no luck with his cigarette, the evening breeze low but persistent, and shakes his lighter as if it might be out of fluid. He mumbles through the clamp of his teeth, "Emmett an' Rose are just door prizes. Ed an' Al an' me? We're collector items."

I take the cigarette from his fingers as easily as I would have from Mike or Eric, and bring it to my mouth to light from the burning end of my own. It takes a few puffs, but I've got it nice and cherry for him before handing it back. (Meanwhile really, _really_ hoping that the fact this act is called 'buttfucking' won't make any significant impact on our vulnerable dudely-bro friendship, but _hey_, ominous foreshadowing.) "I should probably be afraid to ask what that even means, and what does that make Esme?"

Jasper shrugs, carefully inspecting the cigarette as if he'd never been butt-fucked before (seriously, that's what it's called, don't give me that look). "Esme is Carlisle's wife. She never had ta stick around, and he never had ta keep her. Probably loved her when she was alive, the way he goes on at times."

"Listen to us gossip," Alice chuckles, taking the cigarette from Jasper before he can get it to his mouth. (Hehehe. Buttfucked.)

"Woah now," the slow complaint drawls out, "we just got that thing lit, woman." (See, because it's a cigarette butt. It's a pun!)

"Mmhm." Alice hums around her own deep pull, blowing smoke at the both of us. "And now it tastes like Charlie, and I don't want you tempted."

I think there's a creak as my jaw opens to answer and snaps shut in shock, but Jasper just shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Ain't like I didn't keep cool after th' damn van." When I had been bleeding right there in the open air, and Edward's siblings had kept a nearly cruel distance... Jasper swings an accusatory finger my way. "'Sides, if I was ta kill you, you little fucker, it'd be over that fifty large you nearly lost me."

I could only hope that was a playful sort of hostility, and cough through the choked-up surprise. I clear my throat a few more times, turning to lean my elbows on the burnished steel rail. "Whut," eyes watering, voice raspy. "How? Me?" Cough. "I've been telling your brother he plays for the hometeam since day one." I swallow dry, tap ember and ash down into the dark lawn, mulishly glaring after it. "Hardly my fault he's got like, _decades _of repression to clear the fuck out."

"Oh, Charlie..." Alice joins me at the rail, pulling herself to a graceful sit on the precarious stretch. "Is he being a jerk about it?"

"No!" I laugh, venting my disbelief. "He's being his usual polite, tight-assed self." Before I can go on a proper rant, Jasper pulls a face and mumbles a protest.

Alice hisses, "So leave if you don't want to hear it." I assume I'm about to be in the middle of yet another vampire household debacle, but Alice glances sharply up and is immediately gone from sight, cigarette tumbling to the weatherproofed balcony floor.

I blow the hair out of my eyes and take another pull as Jasper bends to retrieve his hard-won smoke and joins me at the balustrade. We smoke in companionable silence until I'm down to an unfiltered nub, licking two fingers to pinch the ember out instead of grinding it under heel. "Unprocessed tobacco?"

Jasper makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat. "No preservatives. Kinda rough."

I nod, gazing out at the moon-lit yard. "I like –" "I like it, though." Our words collide and for some reason this is very funny, because it seems like I can't stop laughing it over and every time Jasper starts in again with the velvet chuckling I'm all gooey and stupid in my insides and OH MY FUCK, what the fuckity fucking fuck is this even _about_? I sober easily, startled into the dawning revelation. "Dude. Are you fucking with me?"

"Hey?" Jasper's light eyebrows raise, pinch up. He regards me out of the side of his face, eyes darting head-to-toe. Then frowns. "Maybe."

"Whaddya meeean 'maybe'?"

Jasper glanced to the yard, annoyance shifting to uncertainty. "I can put folk at ease. Or rile 'em. Thought y'was, like," he tilted his hand back and forth. "Unaffected."

"Uh," I puzzled that over for a blink. "I guess that's what they say. I'm not made of _stone_, though, fuck." Because that _was_ just flirting, just now, wasn't it?

"Heh," Jasper eyed me head to toe again. "Yeah, suppose not." He reads the air in front of his handsomely overlarge noseWHAT THE HELL DID I JUST NARRATE? Jasper licks his lips, bringing the cigarette up again, eyes flashing low and golden. I am frozen at the banister, hands curled loose against each other, eyes wide. Breath caught. "Ain't that strange, then. 'Cos I got you right now an' I don't figger you 'unaffected'." His voice is low and dangerous and I can feel my own pulse in my dick. Jasper leans in, smoke curling from the corners of his mouth to toy in his crimped blonde hair. "Maybe ol' Masen innit gonna kill you, but if ever there was a good way to break a law, fuck, you'd be it." Jasper's eyes bore into mine, and I can't look away from the inky depth of his pupils and there is a rushing through my ears that I can't identify. "Now march your pasty little ass inside, Tons-a-fun" Jasper straightens up, turns to me and flicks his cigarette still burning over the rail. "– 'lest I get myself kicked outta this family fer theft."

My eyes are inches from Jasper's as I'm backed up to the sliding door and maneuvered through it. It is a few minutes after the door has shut between us that I blink, Jasper having returned to the balustrade with his back to the room. I have a very physical freak-out right in the middle of the beanbags; a lot of arm waving and hair clutching and mouthing of obscene incredulity.

Okay Bernardo, calm thyself the fuck down.

So Edward's _unbelievably hot_ and _charismatically insulting_ brother thinks you are the best way to break a law, whatever the fuck that means. So what. It's cool. You don't have to play that game.

It's not cool. Oh god, it's not cool and why the _fuck _did that Dracula shit work on me? I am wide-eyed when Alice returns, though she seems mollified and downright exhausted. "You okay in here?" Not that her suspicion wasn't warranted, but I nodded tightly and didn't trust my voice. "Well, okay." Alice seemed content to leave it at that, and leave Jasper to his musing on the balcony, digging up an old CD player and turning to me with delight, brandishing the complete disk collection of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, like something straight out of a nineties teen flick.

It was air guitar on a beanbag when Edward finally showed up, Alice cutting the music and bouncing bright-eyed to the leftover refrain of _One Hot Minute_.

"Heya, Ed," I pant, tobacco still thick in the back of my throat.

Edward doesn't look any worse for the wear; actually he seems kinda cheerful all things considered. "I wanted to show you something before you speak with Carlisle."

"Yeah, all right." I'm toeing on my shoes and Edward offers an arm for balance as I pull first one foot and then the other up to straighten the bunched heel thing that sneakers do when you don't put them back on properly, ahaha, what _even_. "Seeya, Al. It's been cool." And terrifying!

"Bye, Charlie," Alice waves from the desk on which she had perched, flipping through a _Rolling Stone_.

As soon as that door was closed, I pulled Edward's fitted black blazer off at the shoulders and _climbed him_. Or tried to, anyrate, getting a leg hooked around his waist as the far wall takes the brunt of our weight, shoving my tongue as rudely as humanly possible past his lips in an action that is not even remotely a kiss. It is, like, the savage unevolved cousin of a kiss. This shit is so far removed from the kiss family tree that Gene Simmons don't know its name.

Edward did not complain; he in fact redoubled the efforts that might have seen our faces surgically separated by the end of the evening. But then this stupid persistent _erection _got between us and suddenly Cullen (Masen?) was reminded that it weren't no fairy princess he was pinning to the wall. We tumbled into what looked like a washroom and I was sat upon a marble counter, half of my ass hanging over the sink's edge, the room going dark as the door closed after us. My breath was a sharp, jittery echo off the tiled walls.

Soaps and shampoos and combs clattered under us, Edward slowing the more frantic I became, keeping himself in check. I didn't want him 'in check'. I wanted him a hot fucking mess. I wanted Carlisle to be able to _fucking smell_ exactly which artfag finally got his hands down them designer jeans. There is the groan of countertop under pressure right beside my knee, the pop and sandy trickle of marble in a vice grip. I'm fingering the underside of Edward's cock, relieved puff of breath that the cool flesh could actually _get_ hard, in like, you know, a sexually aroused sort of way. Fuck me, this was the most historically significant news since the Berlin Wall. I wanted to broadcast that shit right alongside Dow fucking Jones, convinced the knowledge would make the entire world a better place. Lost your house to a faulty loan? Don't worry about none 'a that shit, because vampires are physically capable of fucking. Dog shat on the carpet? Put some newspaper over that problem and rest easy - because undead cock remains completely fucking functional.

There's a steep moment of panic when the mirror cracks under the heel of Edward's palm, but then he is swiftly lowering us off the damaged counter and thrusting into my hand, arms braced on counter and tub edge as my back hist the fluffy interruption of a bath mat. Edward's teeth are a flash in the gloom, jaw brushing lax against my forehead. It's an awkward dance, but I get one knee up and can indelicately hump his tense thigh while I'm coordinating the dude's first quickie-in-his-sister's-bathroom. I cannot fucking _wait_ to find out what he'll ejaculate, if anything at all, and wring my grip down as he's thrusting forward. The noise of a porcelain shatter brings my own orgasm, legs tight around Edward's long thigh. He cums dry, as suspected, dick twitching in my grasp as I pull out the last slowing thrusts.

Our faces meet in a lazy ebb and I can feel my sweat on him, breathing damp against his cheek. He shifts uncertainly, then wipes a dusty hand against my chest before stealing fingers down to open my fly. I want to mumble, to reassure him that I was more than okay on that front, but the words lay heavy in my mouth; so I just watch in the bare glimmer of a here-to-fore unnoticed nite-lite, watched as Edward Cullen dipped cold fingers under the band of my underwear into the wet mess pooled between skin and fabric. Watched as he brought fingertips shining with ejaculate up between us to consider, and watched still as those fingertips disappeared between his lips, cleaned so fast I hardly believed that I had just seen... that he had just...

"Oh my god," I manage a strangled whisper.

Edward smiles, uncertain.

"Oh my Fucking God, I love you."

"Heh," Edward pulls both arms around me, and though it's not the most comfortable place to do it, we continue to make out on the bathroom floor and I can _taste_ me in his mouth and just – dear readers, you have NO idea. I am all swollen up inside with like, double rainbow unicorns for this dude.

"I –" mumbled, growled, grinned against his kiss "fucking –" we interrupt ourselves in fits and starts to get our clothes to rights, crashing together as soon as we manage to stand "_love_ –" I never finish the thought, because Dow Jones up-tics got nothing on macking all up ons the perfect fucking monster in my arms.


	19. NINETEEN

**: X :**

_The biggest challenge with this chapter was in straying  
as far from word-for-word with Carlisle's backstory as  
possible. It is a fairly badass origins tale, and difficult  
to improve or reword. (Also I lost the original chapter  
file in the move, and sort of emo-quit this story for a  
few months. I'm back now and I love you.)  
_

* * *

**CHAPTER NINETEEN:** Carlisle and the Infinite Sadness

* * *

"...That's not an original Klimt, is it?"

Edward is smug by my side, eyes glittering with unspoken mischief. "Why wouldn't it be?"

I don't have the breath to answer. We stand in an opulent hallway surrounded by dark mahogany doors and an array of impressionist paintings, one of which I actually recognize. Edward has my hand, wandering fingertips chill against my palm and wrist. His hair is still a relative mess, and I couldn't get the fist-sized wrinkles out of my overshirt, and we are lingering in the sort of reluctance that is half shame and half thrill. Welp, I guess I wanted Carlisle to be able to practically smell me on his favorite son? Sabotage, thy name is handjobs.

But now, this... This. An original fucking Klimt right there in the hallway among the family photos and framed doctorates. Like, can we say Van Gogh next to the finger paintings on the family fridge? No, we can't, because that's fucking absurd. And while standing in a half-glass house populated with mythological baddies, _this_ is what has knocked me two steps to the left of reality. I stand in mute reverence, unblinking. The golds look so much _golder _up close, and I can actually see the planned lines for the wind of the moray eels and the multiple shades of orange and red of the women's hair and -

"You ever notice something strange about Gustav Klimt's more popular arrays? About the fold of the bodies, the unusual bend of arm and neck?" Edward moves forward to point his example and I actually catch his arm back, eyes wide and jaw clenched. Ed chuckles, pulling me up in an embrace. I can only stare. "They kind of look like the corpses stuffed into coffins their families could hardly afford. In a box too small, eyes shut and skin painted in a gaudy mimic." It was half a question, as if leading me to ask the obvious.

"Dead bodies could be cheaper than hiring models, and easier to keep still for long stretches," I agree, twisting in his grip to continue staring at an original fucking Gustav Klimt.

Edward remains unsurprised at my being unsurprised. "And there are dead that might pose as malleably as a living model. Could stay underwater longer, too, to lend the study of the hair and cloth seen here."

"I always thought he had a weird palette with skintone. Chalked it up to the Symbolist movement. I guess that also explains why their limbs are so thin."

"He was an... interesting fellow."

I am suddenly close to tears. "Did you know him?"

Edward huffs a quiet laugh, that deliciously queer way of scoffing that he does. "I knew _of_ him."

"The detail on the seaweed, and the scales, and the simple elegance of gold and black; it's like he was painting a fucking tomb wall in Egypt. Always has that sorta 2D love of poses, too, only so fantastically more _organic _-"

"Mmhm," Edward tugs me further down the hall. "I knew you'd like that."

"You did not." I try to school the tight breathlessness from my throat, acting like a _total girl _who had just been introduced to her favorite Beatle. "You had no idea I loved Klimt. You don't even _know_ what I think of the Symbolist movement."

"You like it better than the Impressionist fad that followed and generally don't go for abstract art that strays too far from the craft of organic visualization. You prefer aesthetics over subject matter, and if I recall, Andy Warhol who was a troll who can just go fuck himself."

"Wh -"

"If I'm going to overhear everything a room is thinking, I'm going to focus on what deserves my attention. I could also tell you that Jennifer worries constantly over your pierced face getting infected, and that her spirit animal is Beyonce - whatever that means."

"...My spirit animal is Emile Hirsch, just so you know."

Edward stops the gradual tug further away from the golden halo of Klimt's Water Serpents, unreadable as he regards me from head to toe. "You, ah -" The tightness in his mouth and just under his eyes that would precede a blush on any normal face, and Edward is turning down the hall without me.

"You can say it," I amble beside him. "I'm the skeezy lovechild of Emile Hirsch and Ezra Miller. I got the Jew nose to prove it."

Edward shakes his head, laugh caught between his teeth. "That's not it, but okay. Sure, I can believe that. They left you in the Swans' mailbox and told their agents you died in a paparazzi ambush."

"How long has it been since I last admitted how much I love you?"

Edward glances at a wristwatch he isn't wearing. "About twenty minutes ago."

"Hn." But I can't joke anymore, because I've been reminded of our rendezvous and hasty clean-up and the damp tacky pull of cotton underwear on skin as we walk and that we were on our way to chat up Edward's parental equivalent of a father and -

"That's twice tonight you've gone quiet. I'd ask you your thoughts, but I already know your reticence towards sharing."

"I made a mistake, attacking you in the hallway. Inappropriate Chuck is inappropriate."

Edward drifts back, catching at my hand again. "I thought it was I who attacked you?"

"Great. So we're both terrible people." At Edward's puzzled frown, "I mean, _dude_, this is like. Your parents' house. Your sister was right across the hall. We broke her sink. And now even _I _can smell me on you."

Edward inhales as if testing that observation, glancing up and to the left in thought. "I'll... explain my behavior later. For now, you have my apologies. I know you wanted to make a good impression, and, rest assured, you have." A watery smile, "You're very brave, Bernardo Swan. Braver than I."

"We're not just talking about the quickie in Alice's powder room anymore, are we?"

"Brave_ and _smart. I am outmatched."

I sputter, laugh. "You're a wise-ass is what you are."

Benevolently, Edward inclines his chin in half a nod. He draws up short nearer the end of the hall, knocking lightly at a door wedged between a world globe and the bust of an unrecognizable Roman. (_It belongs in a museum, _Harrison Ford lectured sternly in the back of my mind.) I didn't hear the permission to enter, but then again I probably wasn't meant to, and Edward opens the door to usher me into Carlisle's office.

He is sitting at the moderately shabby oak desk, is the Cullen patriarch, and looks up from his files with that more familiar warmth to his smile. My stomach flutters, as nervous as our first meeting. "I feared you'd gotten lost. Forgive me if I've pulled out a bit of work during the wait."

The heat of the blush stings my ears and I clear my throat, stepping forward to take the seat offered. The chair is old leather, stiff and unyielding, and the office as a whole is not as heavily decorated as the hallway. It is obviously a place of work, filing cabinets lining the walls where bookshelves did not, an extension phone next to a rolodex among the clutter of Carlisle's desk. The only bit of ornament was a large wooden cross, dark and oiled, almost as tall as myself. It hung just behind the desk, a heavy counterweight to all the somber modernity of the medical profession surrounding us.

Carlisle follows my eye, glancing over his shoulder and chuckling. "Pre-Cromwellian. My father carved it himself." He swivels his chair back toward us, Edward standing with an elbow on the back of my seat. Looming. Carlisle's eyes drop from us to the desk, shuffling papers back into their folders. "He was an Anglican Pastor, my father. For those of us here who don't know the history, Anglicans were passionate in their persecution of Roman Catholics during the seventeenth century; and Protestants in general, of that time, believed very strongly in the reality of evil."

My heart is thudding in my ears. It's one thing to kiss another dude in front of a clapboard Baptist church in Bumfuck-nowhere USA, but it's something else entirely to kiss another dude under the Sistine Chapel's ceiling in Rome. The difference is history, art, and a whole lotta death 'n revolution. I swallow, dry-mouthed. To put this into perspective; Sistine Chapel happened about a hundred years before Carlisle had been born. Probably. I really am not a historian. But Carlisle is like, renaissance old, mkay? And with certain age there's like this... like an irrefutable command for respect. I mean, if my grandparents were still alive I wouldn't even kiss a totally heteronormative girlfriend in front of them, because, rude.

Carlisle had like four hundred years on my grandparents, and I'd just hand-fucked Edward in his house. My stomach was in my shoes.

"The world was a very different place, you can imagine. What are folklore nowadays were very real fears in the hearts and minds of Londoners of that era, and I was raised to extinguish these fears," The folders are stacked, straightened, Carlisle's hands quick and precise. "One way or another. I cannot account for how many innocent crones were burned at the stake for witchery, nor the babes with physical defects drowned for superstitious cautions against lycanthropy... but _my _first victory against corporeal evil would be my last." He turns to regard the cross again, lazily swaying the deskchair on its pivot. "And unfortunately, that evil was very real indeed."

Edward has drifted away, but I'm too nervous to seek him out.

Carlisle isn't smiling, lost in memory. But at least he isn't frowning, either. And at least I'm not getting the 'stay away from my son you heinous sodomite' speech. Carlisle glances across the room and I twist around to see Edward's back as he inspects a book shelf. A moment passes before I realize that they could be having a conversation completely between themselves. Vampire fucking bluetooth.

"So," Carlisle continues as if the moment had never interrupted him. "You can only guess why we live as we do. I may not have agreed with everything my father did, but I believed in what he stood for."

"... Segregation from gaudy Roman frescoes?"

A surprised laugh, Carlisle looking about as young as he must have been when he died. "No..." Laughter metering out to a chuckle that I recognized. "How... funny." He says it like he's not sure that's what he means, smirking Edward's way. Oh, jesusfuck they have the same lopsided grin. "But to my point," THEY EVEN TALK THE SAME AUGH HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE THIS BEFORE, "The values that I once upheld were that of facing the very real evils in this world, of fighting for those who could not, and of teaching those who were able-bodied to rout the vampire coven clear out of London itself."

Edward, finally, speaks up. "He burned a stock of oil through the sewers, after -"

Gently, Carlisle takes his narrative back, "After my death. I am right here, Edward; you needn't speak as if we aren't in the same room."

"Maybe the good Doctor Carlisle would like to tell the stories that feature his _gouging amounts of _ _hypocrisy _instead?"

There, on Carlisle's face, was Edward's look of crestfallen disappointment. I nearly squirmed in place for all the conflicting DO WANT and DO NOT WANTs rolling around the edges of my nerves. Carlisle sighs through his nose, standing. "I have not always fought as I swore to. Even today I work under the friendship of my patrons, those who do not share my values but nonetheless uphold the notion of - "

"Dog eat dog," Edward spits.

"Live and let live." A stony resolve.

"Live and let die," I nod, breaking the tension. To Edward's incredulity, "What? I felt left out."

Edward's expression storms over. "I hope that's exactly what Carlisle will do. Leave you entirely out of this."

Carlisle, "I should think that choice was Charlie's alone."

"Charlie am confused. And a little hungry." The last could have gone unsaid, but I'm trying to lighten the atmosphere here.

Carlisle is the picture of hospitality and concern, "There is dessert in the kitchen. Esme would be overjoyed to see you enjoy more of her cooking."

Edward slams a book to the floor and at this point, really, I can't blame him. He stalks past me, squaring his palms over the desk as if to vault it.

"Edward." Carlisle's voice is flinty. I shiver, knees gone to water with dread, unsure if I could stand to leave, unsure if I wanted to or not.

Instead of the volleyed bickering I expected, Edward rocks back but does not loosen his grip on the edge of the desk. His shoulders hitch. "Please," the crack in his voice lances through me from neck to gut and I actually stand and actually take Edward's elbow and am actually, like, kinda pissed off for all the reasons I never thought I'd be actually kinda pissed off about during this debacle of a meet-n-greet. Edward shakes his head. "Not him. I don't want that. I don't want him... like that." A tension under my fingers, tremors in the line of Edward's shoulders, "Do you even know what that feels like, anymore? To want someone, untarnished, out of the hold of your influence? Or are you just after another footsoldier for your collection?"

There is a lot of venom in so quiet an interrogation, and I tug at Edward's elbow before this gets to broken-desk levels of intensity. "So! Wow, hey, look at the time. Thank you for your hospitality, Doctor Carlisle. My dad, the Sheriff? He's uh. Expecting me back before ten. Yep. Being all. Police-Chief-y about it. So, if I have your permission? To date Edward? That's a thing, right, like a tradition, to ask that, right?"

Carlisle's expression gradually softens and he regards me with what I think is concerned amusement? "Of course, Charlie. You may call on Edward any time."

"Oh," Is my voice too loud? Too cheerful? "Okay, cool. Thanks for being cool about this. Most parents really don't ah, I mean, you know, even today..."

Carlisle is half distracted, probably trying to talk to Edward without actually, you know, talking to him. His smile, when it is turned on me, is fond and confident. "I have lived through quite a bit more than most parents."

And I don't think he _just _meant the sixties, but hey. I'd seen the mutton chops. "Ahaha, all right. Cool. Thanks again. Ed?"

Edward does not budge from his death-grip over the desk. "I'm going to ask you once and only once, Bernardo. Do you want to be counted among the number of the undead?"

"Noooo," It pops out of my mouth without any actual thought. "No, thank you. I - I mean, I like food too much." I jerk my head to the side, a tight nod and smile. "The nonpoisonous kind." Because it had to be said. Because _fuck's sake_.

Carlisle nods, unruffled. "We look forward to seeing you again, Charlie."

"Thanks!" I nearly yelp, already halfway to the door whether Edward follows or not. "I'll give my Cop Dad your regards." I'm not being subtle, or even very polite. But really. _Really_. I was pissed. the fuck. off. For all the reasons I had hardly even fathomed, blindsided by this new depth of conflict. It wasn't that the Cullen family _wouldn't _want me with Edward; the problem instead was that they might actually want me a little too much. Which was... I mean... wow.

Eesh, but, y'know. Wow.

Edward is right on my heels as I make it down the hallway, office door slammed so hard after him it actually settles crooked in the jamb. He's not gentle with the hug, tugging me around by the shoulder just to squash me breathless against his chest. I flap an arm at his ribs until he lets go, gasping in relief with the fresh ache of bruised ribs.

"Sorry," a frantic hover as we descend the stairs. "I'm... I lost my temper. That went as awfully as I knew it would."

"That went..." I bend double at the kitchen, straighten up with a hand at my side, turning on heel to pace as quickly as my limited breath would allow in order to make the door. "Different. Than what I expected. Thought he'd light into me with some like, holy thou-shall-not-sodomize-my-progeny rant." I catch Alice's wave out of the corner of my eye as we round the atrium. "Never expected a well-meaning death threat. A _threatening_ death-threat, sure. But not like, 'welcome to the family! _Try the pudding_'." I still can't catch my breath, and may or may not have been hyperventilating. My laugh is high and reedy and I'm already going dizzy by the time the cool night air hits me damp in the face.

Did I say cool night air? I meant freezing, early-spring, night air. The shiver hits me like a thunderclap, and oh fuck this is familiar.

"Bernardo?" Edward's voice is low and urgent in my ear. "Come back inside."

"I might want that. I might want to be a part of your family. Just not... not right now. I don't wanna be seventeen forever."

Edward's embrace is gentler this time, a clasp from behind that I gratefully sink back into. And now of course I'm dizzy for another reason entirely, because the dude I wouldn't have bet a single red cent on ever giving me the time of day is, like, _apologizing_ for his family's behavior because he, like, _likes_ me and junk. O-m-g. "I don't want that. Not at all, not ever, not for you. I won't let it happen."

Mouth dry, "Why not?"

His chest heaves behind me in a sigh. "It's more than a physical change. There's an obedience, a type of... it's not pleasant, the bond. Or even if it _is _pleasant, it's pleasant for all the wrong reasons, in all the wrong ways."

"Even our shiny new relationship is determined by chemical bond, dude."

"No, I mean, I know, but that's not the same thing. It's not the same. You wouldn't _be _the same around me, with me. I would hate that, more than anything." We're half across the yard to the gravel driveway, and Edward steps us toward his car. "I would hate myself for it."

"And you'd hate Carlisle more?"

"I'm not worried about Carlisle. There are laws against turning too many in too short a time, and he reached his limit with Emmett. If you were to change, it could not be by his doing." We board the car; I flinch away from the door as it is shut after me. Edward starts the engine without buckling up, darting a glance over his shoulder before pulling slowly out and turning carefully around to coast down the long drive to the road. "I never want to hold that kind of thrall over you, Bernardo. Esme is outlawed from the act due to her inherent, er, imbalances. Rose, I'm not so sure about. But she's too young to turn someone and there are laws in regards to that, too. So of course Emmett is out of the question."

"Alice? Jasper?"

"Alice... I don't know." There is a leaden silence.

I rasp, lips barely moving. "Jasper would."

"Jasper _can't_. He's had far too many progeny himself. It is by Carlisle's intercession he even lives." Well, at least I know what that weirdness on the balcony was about. Edward's hands are tight around the wheel, but we are still driving slow and for some reason this unsettles me more than our speculation over just how many people in the Cullen/Hale household were allowed to murder me.

"Something you're not saying here, Ed?" I'm still shaking and the car has yet to warm up. The shock was still tripping through my nerves; I felt weak and high and stunned, restless and exhausted int he same moment. "Something about Jasper, maybe? Something about Jasper's supernatural influence on like the proto-emotional vibes in a room, maybe?" Okay so I am pulling terms out of my ass, but whatever. Questions needed answering.

Edward inhales sharp through his nose, and the car slows to a crawl. This, I would later realize, is guilty driving. As opposed to angry driving, or fiercely happy driving, in which Edward would punch the car through the space-time fabric at the speed of fucking light. No, he was driving slow in case I was so overcome with disgust as to throw myself from the moving vehicle and dash my brains on the passing roadway. Edward is not meeting my eyes. "It... affects us all. He can control it, and by courtesy doesn't use his influence against us."

"But?"

"But, nothing. I had to know if I could trust him around you, trust his control. I called Alice from inside the house - I can only imagine you didn't hear that - and listened intently to Jasper's thoughts. Without his consent."

"Wow. You don't even try to excuse yourself."

A scowl, and I start to feel like we're drifting back to familiar conversational territory. It's just too _weird _when Edward's all careful and desperate and outnumbered. "Bernardo, Jasper's gift - it's like an ink stain. The ink soaks into whatever touches it, if he's not the one spreading the ink in the first place. It rests, first and foremost, in his own mood. Before he could control it, a bad day could mean an entire town at each others' throats."

"Ookay, but what are you trying to tell me here?"

"I was more or less wading through the ink, just to eavesdrop."

"Yeah? And then what?"

"And then... I took a brisk walk around the property before retrieving you from Alice's room."

Maybe it was the residual stress, but it took a moment of us continuing to inch down the driveway at like two miles per hour before I lightbulb'd and finally left the car. They lied to me, about Carlisle and Ed's pre-meeting meeting. Alice was in on it. The cigarette, the allusion to being tempted, the drop and the vanish. Alone on the balcony with somebody whose moral center was roguish at best and bloodthirsty at its most literal worst. I strode ahead, right down the middle of the white gravel road, fingers splayed out at my sides, because. _Not okay_.

I turn, stepping in front of the wide path of the Volvo. The car crawls to a stop, Edward a blank presence behind the wheel. I lean down against the cool paint of the hood, arms crossed, stomach picking up the purr of the engine.

So wrong.

My grin spreads from ear to pierced ear, slow. Edward got off on someone else's dirty thoughts. About me. With me. With - about, by, whatever, his more-or-less stepbrother.

_So_ wrong.

I kinda liked it.


	20. TWENTY

**: X :**

_We're nearing the end of the book! AND I REALLY  
CANNOT WAIT TO START WARPING 'NEW MOON'  
LIKE GUYS SERIOUSLY THAT IS THE PLOTLINE  
THAT HAS BEEN HAUNTING ME EVER SINCE THE  
START OF THIS PROJECT ALKF:AGH:GAKAALKFH:AF_

_/gross sobbing_

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY:** Guillotine

* * *

Okay, so.

We've got Edward's car interior (which always smells new), and the crunch of the road under my chuck-taylors, and the glow of the moonlight on cold white stone. The purr of an engine, the bone-dry whistle of a high wind through barren treetops. Edward's home had been lukewarm, a heating bill to feed a disguise to please a crazy mother, all under the direction of a totalitarian father with (if I'm guessing right) a weird urge to 'collect' kith and kine under his banner to front a revolutionary humanitarian vampire lifestyle.

...Fuck. All right, lemme back this crazy train up for a moment here. There are a few things need some es'plainin' before we go any further, or else the next few moments of my stupidly short life are going to sound, well... uh... suitably dumbfucked.

Like, you know what? I was looking forward to the boyfriend shindig. The vampire shit, okay, that wasn't fun anymore. But I mean, making out covertly in my bedroom; picnic dates to a haunted house; serenades with piano music; I'd buy him the entire boxset of TrueBlood as an ultimatum for getting his v-card punched because I know there's only so much of Anna Paquin's close-up-camera-pan-screaming-tooth-gap one can take in a sitting. (Sookie would be the sporty best friend I'd take to the club to make myself look better by comparison even though we'd have to buy an extra pass for her giant baby forehead.)

No, no, I'm getting off track. (SARAH MICHELLE GELLER WHERE HAVE YOU GONE; YOUR BOYFRIENDS WEREN'T AS HOT BUT AT LEAST YOUR GAY SIDE-CHARACTERS WEREN'T CONTRIVED RACIAL STEREOTYPES). Okay, no, but yes! Yes, I was looking forward to all that stuff. The Seduction, even the Rejection should he totally want to Wait To Preserve His Virtue (which I could use as further leverage to get him to sit his ass down and actually watch Buffy with me because OH MY GOD JOSS WHEDON'S DIALOGUE ALKFJ:KFKFA:H). I wanted Edward the same way some people want that lazy-eyed kitten with the snaggle fang at the shelter, the one with the bad cough and the scaly patches of missing fur. It's kinda grotesque, that kitten, but you want to protect it with a ferocity you had never before known.

Because that kitten? Sure, it could give you some communicable Amazonian disease, but it's so pathetic it's actually kinda cute. It doesn't even have to be a very nice kitten; in fact you have fallen in love with its rabid shyster attacks against your shoelaces and think 'damn, this kitten has personality'.

Well. Okay, so it helped that Edward at his worst was 'GQ model after the meth rots his face off' and not exactly 'flea-bit swamp cat', because the vampire thing… The Vampire Thing. That whole mess - I just - and I mean, here's why we need to back this story up; because during the events that followed this evening, this wasn't just My Story anymore. Suddenly, my life wasn't all about Me. Which, you know, being the only child of a single parent, I was pretty much only experienced with handling my own shit. So. Story time is going to get introspective, I guess, like the slow-mo impact of an immovable object getting ear-fucked by an unstoppable force. Like. There really isn't any other way my life could have played out to its end.

So. I was on the hood of Edward's car, attempting to scare him with my patent pervy-homo-deviant grin. Edward remained inscrutable behind the wheel. He could have run me down, or thrown the car into reverse and left me the walk to the road and the embarrassing phonecall to the Sheriff. But for some reason, the guy likes me and is willing to forgive my wacky alternative-lifestyle, uh, alternatives (cough).

Here's where I'd forgiven the doofus his extreme inter-familial relationship _faux pas_; Jasper wasn't the single driving force behind Edward's involvement in my life. Jasper wasn't there when Edward had slowly and carefully worked my dick with my own hands. He hadn't laid in bed with me the whole night, tracing the veins along my arm as the orgasm was pieced over by exhaustion. And Jasper sure as fuck hadn't put up with my spastic line of questions, my blunt disregard of his morality, and my obtrusive boyfriend-y generalization of his every waking action. Was I upset Edward had second-hand inherited his lust that evening?

Yes. But then quickly after I was turned on by it. So uh. That is what it is.

Secondly, I had no actual reason to be averse to Edward's 'parents'. Whatever the feud between he and Edward, Carlisle had only ever been accommodating to me. Even when he'd laughed at the dinner table, it could have just as easily been a laugh of relief or happiness than one of mocking scorn. In fact, the more I replayed the dinner fiasco in my head, the less I saw the Cullen/Hale household in so menacing a light. Sure, okay, poison for dessert: bit not good. But even Esme's obvious mental issues only smacked of mangy ol' Snaggletooth McRabiesface the terrifying but pathetic kitten. I just wanted to hug her and let her plan the wedding reception and decorate our kitchen.

I could forgive Emmett his thick fucking think-pan, and I was pretty sure Rose and I were going to be the Best of Frienemies; and of course I still loved Alice to pieces even when she was being dubious with my well-being. I couldn't really forgive Jasper because UH, HELLO? The bet on Ed's gender preference was in bad taste for both involved, but to top it off by casually hitting on his boyfriend? I mean, sure I 'catch eyes obliviously', but there is a vibe in that whole setup that I didn't exactly trust. And, at this point, I wouldn't put it past all three involved in the cigarette litmus to be fucking with me.

Like ha ha, Charlie Brown, the football is a metaphor for thinking you're _that _fuckable!

So, to buoy myself from that sad introspection, I fully planned on giving Edward eight brands of _shit _for Jasper's stupid fucking inkstain shenanigans. I slid into the car, hand on the open door. "It kinda makes me wonder," I start, trusting Edward to know exactly to what I was referring, "Why didn't Jasper ever... you know. With - at - you? Since he made the bet on your, um," An all-encompassing hand wave. "This whole mess."

Edward's brow goes all lofty and I know I've got him baited. "I am probably not his type. Really Bernardo, and here I expected better of your assumptions."

I sputter, "You bitch! You could have told me your brother was gay!"

Edward is taken aback, actually looking out around the road as if to see who, exactly, I had just called a bitch. He doesn't even look mad, just, you know. Hilariously confused. "I... never..."

"You can read his _mind_, you asshole!"

A frown, "Bernardo could you not insult me with every answer?"

"Fine. Fucking qu ... cu..." I bite off every hard consonant, rubbing my tired face. "That's gonna be more difficult than I thought," I laugh. "I could throttle you for this, you fukken troll."

"You could try." A dark undertone nears the edge of Edward's patience, a small thrill tumbling through me at the prospect of being able to choke the daylights out of someone while fucking them because they don't need to brea-

I suck in a sharp breath, "Wow, sorry. No. I'm... I take that back." The awkward silence descends. Edward reaches across my lap, shutting the passenger door. He does not remove himself, a cage of arms. Wordlessly searching my face. I sigh, frustrated, banging my head back against the headrest. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. No choking, like - ever - okay?"

Edward nods, eyes wandering out the window in a twitch.

I settle back into a more comfortable slouch, elbow on the door. "I'm just - I like what we have. It's weird and undefined and I'm going to try and not fuck it up, okay?"

"I don't mind if you fuck a few things up. To err is human." A hint of a smile, "What do you mean, 'it's weird'?"

"Oh come on dude... it's a little weird." Nodding my head because just _agree _with me already. "You and me and the vague no-man's-land of undefined fuckery. Susceptible to the lusty inks of siblings more courageous in their wants." A sniffle, "'N shit"

"Jasper doesn't..." Edward withdraws to his side of the car, and I've a new smile to catalogue. This one is 'smarmy bastard wins debate'. "Nevermind. I'll leave you to sort that out on your own."

"Noooo, come on, you can't leave stupid hints like that and not follow through."

"I think I deserve to be amused at your expense, should you ever decide to provoke the issue with the other party involved."

"I can respect that, but seriously; does Jasper...?"

"No." Glancing twice my way, clearly annoyed. "I am not a magic-eight ball, Bernardo."

I laugh, because _unf_, "Baby, you haven't even given me the chance to shake you up. We could _see _what floats to the top." I kick at the dash for emphasis, laughing, "Now really, gimme a hint at least."

"No."

"I will do _anything _you want, anything at all not to exceed a day - no, a week. C'mon man, bartering system over here. Best relationship compromise technique, like, ever."

"Anything I want?"

"Oh, don't even fuckin' _tease _me. Anything at all. I'll properly cut my vegetables and look both ways crossing the street. I'll even - now, control yourself - I'll even alphabetize the National Geographic in my closet."

"... Bernardo, they're issued by date and they all start with N."

"Does Jasper have a tawdry crush on me, yes or no. Simple. Name your price."

"Let me take you back to the house. It's not even eight yet."

"You aren't going to tell me at all, are you?"

A scoff, "No, I mean that's my price. Come enjoy the remainder of the evening in the _trust _that I would not let anything happen to you. Even if - _especially_ if that means protecting you against the good intentions of my family."

"Hm, well. How about - instead of that kinda redemption - you go ahead and fess up to your being a giant queer? I mean, bodily harm, okay, I can handle and/or understand that. But you cut me deep, hombre. I had your back and you welched. You fuckin' welched." I don't even know what 'welching' means, but it sounds cool and western so whatever I'll go with it.

And now Edward is stymied. "My apologies." He sits straighter, glancing twice behind us, and I am starting to recognize what 'surprise' looks like on a face that has no evolutionary need for eyebrow mobility. It is a half a moment before an unvoiced question is answered, and Alice is bouncing in the back seat of the Volvo with her elbows on each of our shoulders.

"Hey. You done with the dramatic storming-out-on Carlisle scene?"

Edward frowns at the rearview, but smirks as he regards me out of the side of his face. "I wasn't the one who stormed."

I twist in place to shrug at Alice. "What can I say; got a protective streak like a mile friggin wide for this closet case over here."

Alice puckers her entire face, "D'aww!" She reaches up to noogie Edward, who is back to his normal glowering self. "So hey, Rose just kicked my ass at Halo and I need you to take her ego back down to its more manageable Chernobyl levels. Charlie, you play?"

"I'm really more a fan of fake plastic guitar riffs."

Alice snickers when she meets my stank-face. "Well I don't know what you kids like these days. Flashy and explody - and far enough removed from militarized to keep Jasper out of a snit - Halo's good enough for our den."

Edward explains, "The reaction timing of controller relay to actual game console is set at a threshold - despite our various talents, my family cannot 'cheat' at video games."

Alice stares ahead of us, deadpan. "They are the great American equalizer."

* * *

So we all three leave Edward's car parked on the side of the long white road, stretching our legs on the walk back to the house under the promise that Edward would explain to me the whole Jasper 'issue' on the drive home. He and Alice both agreed it would be funnier this way, watching me squirm for the rest of the night. I name Al for a Judas, drifting apart as we reach the paved drive, craving a cigarette if only for something to occupy my hands.

Alice shrugs. "It's rare to see Jasper so involved in family drama. I'm glad he's coming out of his shell a little, even if that means griefing you two dorks." She opens the door and breezes through, leaving Edward and I on the cobbled semi-circle fronting the house.

I am theatrically wounded, "She just called me a dork! You've dragged me down to dorkhood with this bullshit!"

Edward is nearly chagrined. "You aren't going to like any of us better when you get your answer. Why not just let the matter drop as an isolated incident?"

"Because fuck you if you _ever _thought it was okay to pimp your boyfriend out to your brother just to see if he'd nibble the line." A bitter laugh. "Like, literally."

Edward's expression softens, which does nothing to reassure me. "You're offended."

"Gold star for the grad student."

"Would it make a terrible amount of sense if I ... preferred that you be offended?"

"Nope. Wait, what?"

"I'm glad you're angry."

"Oh. Hm."

"Come inside already, Bernardo. You haven't a coat."

* * *

The den was a windowless split-level down a wide flight of thickly carpeted stairs. Here I was introduced to the subtle difference of metal plating under glossed sideboard, and caught a bit of open wall where the entrance could motorize shut at a remote command. The whole level was brightly lit by inlaid halogen, cluttered with the kind of junk you'd expect an affluent family to stow. Exercise equipment, extraneous cookware, surfboards and unlabeled boxes of Christmastides past, staggering up into a makeshift wall - lending a backdrop to the large sectional couch facing the HD flatscreen (which hung on the wall nearest our arrival).

The Xbox sat like a black and green brick in front of the couch, cords spidering to the outlet and television, wireless controllers in the various death-grips of the people sat akimbo in poses of gloss-eyed concentration. People as in plural, as in Esme and Emmett and Jasper himself, Rosalie arriving just on our heels with the gumption to look embarrassed.

"I thought Short Pale 'n Punky vamoosed for the evening." Rosalie bumped my shoulder on her way past; halp you guize, I think I'm falling in love with a chick.

"I'm here to defend Alice's kill count." Okay, so I know a thing or two about FPS-ing, but we're going to keep that a secret. My neo-nineties Indy image would be _ruined _ by anything later than original N64, mkaaay?

Rosalie glances over her shoulder as she climbs onto the couch, waving a hand in front of Jasper's unblinking face and costing him a shot. "Whatever, short stack. You're pressing the buttons too fast again, Esme."

"Oh - shoot!" Esme fumbles the controller, "Jasper, no camping!"

"What can I say, ma? Bright pink armor stands out like a sore thumb." Oh, my god. Ohmygod. This family is _nerdorable_.

"I didn't think we'd land on this map! Emmett, you take over before I break another controller. Hi, Charlie dear."

I wave as Esme leaves the couch, passing us to climb the stairs. She ruffles my hair on the way up and I try not to flinch, perfumed undertone of something stale and cloying left in her wake. I recognized that smell; it was the way the house smelled, the way Edward smelled when it rained. Like dust and the hours leftover in any room in which my mom had ever painted her nails or permed her hair; a lingering chemical burn. I wondered if Esme's veins were pumped full of formaldehyde, if she was flammable - if that was why, in all this homey grandeur, there was no picturesque roaring fireplace. I wondered if that was why Edward didn't like it when I smoked.

I drifted to the couch and hopped over the back, next to Alice who was going toe-to-toe on the split screen with Emmett.

"Screen-watcher," Emmett complained. "You can see me on my own minimap."

"So turn your map off, genius."

"I need it for ambushes. Eyes to your own screen, Ally!" Emmett is ambushed and his avatar resets at the spawn point. "I'm getting the tank."

Alice scoffs, "Oh, okay, so just announce where you're headed so I can beat you there."

"Maybe I'm purposefully misleading you, hey?"

"Whatever. Eat slag, meatball." You really don't need me to reiterate how much I love Alice, right? I laugh while Emmett's avatar bites the high-def dust and is sent back to respawn.

"So, Charlie." Emmett does not relinquish the controller to Rose, who is covertly insisting she knows how to take Alice out, grinning at me with half his attention stubbornly glued to the hub crosshairs. "Wanna go a round? Best outta five and you answer me a question."

I can almost _feel_ Edward winding himself up behind me, and perhaps my haste to accept was only to stall the inevitable piss-fit between bickering brothers. Alice very cheerfully relinquishes me her controller, and it's an awkward five minutes accidentally launching grenades and walking in circles before I remember which button does what. Ironically, I am the bright pink avatar, so I take cover behind metallic shipping crates in order to study Emmett's minimap.

"Are you screen-watching, Swan?"

"Yes," I haul ass to the metal grating of the only building in sight - the maze-like respawn shelter where I leave a trail of sticky mines after me.

"You're teaching the kid bad habits, Ally. I don't think he should hang out with you so much," Emmett's condescension buoys his next move, taking hard damage to his avatar to trigger the bombs but hiding just outside to wait out health replenishment.

I guess you don't really need a play-by-play of our firefight, but suffice to say it was a pretty close call. Emmett better knew the tricks of the trade, but I was conservative with ammo and took greater advantage of cover. It was after my third death that Emmett passed the controller to Edward, who was perched on the back of the couch like a gargoyle.

"So," Emmett leans back into Rose, who rolls her eyes and punches at his shoulder. "Riddle me this, Shortstop," I'm glad to note we've skipped right past gay jokes, at least. Ffff. Emmett points over Alice, above me, "And shut up, Eddy, this is a conversation I won fair and square." 'Eddy', ha.

"Not gonna win yer vacation money back," Jasper lifts his chin at me and I toss him the controller, content to let Edward distract himself from this conversation with some good ol' fashioned sibling rivalry.

The game goes quiet as the new contestants take up their positions, and Emmett plows ahead. "I'm only asking 'cos I can't figure it out." He has leaned forward to brace elbows on knees, one hand a loose fist over the knuckles of the other, shoulders hitching up in question. "So okay really, who is it? Which one of you is the woman?"

"Don't break the controll-er," Alice warns Edward in a sing-song voice, distracted with a hangnail.

I cough, sit straighter. "It uh, doesn't exactly work like that, pally."

"Bullshit, it doesn't. There's pitching, and there's catching; tab A and slot B and all."

"Nooooo," I shake my head slowly, long swings of my chin that almost leave me dizzy. "Like, hello? Ancient cultures have had the numerous arts of lovemaking or whatever down to its varieties way before homosexuality was ever listed in the mental health digests. Before it even had a _name_. We're talking pre-mono-theist, here; B.C. an' shit. I mean, fuck, sometimes people were just lovers, and it weren't no thang." I've leaned apart from Al to face Emmett and free up my hands in that classy back-n-forth wave lectures like to employ. "You ever read up on Greek mythology? I don't mean that weird Nordic horse-fucking shit, I mean Aphrodite throwing a goddamn hissy because she couldn't tempt a philosopher's son. And believe me, that poem wasn't just a verse between rational thought and the uselessness of emotion in philosophical debate; that story was gay as hell." I don't know where I'm going with this, but at least I'm getting a few laughs. "So she ends up wearing 'a bearded facade' just to get this guy laid so she can spurn him later in like, revenge or something. And the dude is totally okay with it! He was supposed to know what it felt like to be the woman getting spurned, right? That was the lesson she was trying to teach him, right? Well anyway, the poem basically invents the 'it's better to have loved and lost' bullshit you hear so much about nowadays, and teaches us all a lesson that a beard doesn't mean a tougher heart."

"Okay, yeah, that's cool to know - I will never view a Coney Island the same way ever again. But who," Emmett squares his palms in front of himself. "Is the pitcher? You know the metaphor I'm using, right?"

I suck air past my teeth. "You're talking about anal intercourse. I'm really more a Homosex Lite kinda guy."

Emmett looks exactly as uncomfortable as I wanted him to be. "What, you don't...?"

"Not really. Some guys don't, you know. It'd be like assuming every straight couple liked to visit the back porch when _they_ fuck. It can be fun, but it can also be physically taxing." I've got a level of Doctor Phil detachment from most conversations like these: the gift of public schooling. Rosalie and Alice are eying me with piqued interest, Edward and Jasper carefully ignoring the conversation in favor of their explody deathmatch.

Emmett frowns, "So you're saying neither of you is the girlfriend?"

"Nope. Just two dudes who - " A huff, because I still don't know what to call *this*, "Are still dudes. Emasculation socially optional - if that ever has anything to do with butt-fucking, which it doesn't."

"No, no, wait. So who gets the diamond ring? You know there's the plain gold band and then the like, the fancier more expensive one with the diamond," Emmett is half addressing Alice, and my eyebrows feel like they've detached entirely from my forehead.

"Well, I guess it'd be two gold... bands?" A cough. God, I need that cigarette.

Rose hits Emmett and he rubs his chest like it actually hurts, mumbling, "Whaaat?"

"You're still getting me a ring, cheapskate."

"Hey, I mean," Emmett's Jersey laugh, all snort and bluster, "You wanna talk equality..."

Rose bats her eyelashes. "So you're saying I should get you a big sparkly pinky ring, is that it? Ruby-encrusted platinum?" I'm just glad the conversation is no longer over who intends to penetrate whom, and sink back into the couch to watch the game. Eesh. Rose carries on, "Because there is no way we're doing the wedding thing, _again,_ without a rock the size of Gibraltar."

My gaze slides from the epic dodge-and-shoot going down in Halo to the cheerfully arguing couple, to Alice - who for all of this looks guilty. I stare. Alice glances at me, shrugging, terrible at deflection. I stare harder, eyes narrowing. "So," not quiet enough, not under my breath, not just between me and her because everyone in the room would have heard me regardless. "Who gets the diamond ring, Al?"

Alice's frown is built up with effort. "I'm not a fortune-cookie, Charlie."

I don't even know why I'm annoyed. The implication... well, if you haven't figured it out yet then I won't ruin the surprise for you either, dear readers. Christmas gifts are wrapped for a goddamn reason, because suddenly the certainty of my future with Edward feels like a trap, something ruined and monotonous and _sure_. A safe bet. Boring. Plain gold bands hung right up alongside the stockings. I'm not going to ask Alice about it, because I don't really want to know. Even the _suspicion_ nearly has me in hives.

"'S funny, Edward recently told me he's not a magic eight-ball."

"Pfft. Clairvoyance in any form is hardly as useful as we want it to be," Alice shares a shrug with me, and settles back into the couch with dibs on taking the next winner.

I watch, and listen, and gather that Edward is not playing his best this time around, heckled by the fact that he now has something to distract him from eavesdropping on the thoughts of his opponents. I am heartily invited to sit in on further FPS tournaments, if not to play outright. I suddenly know what my hands are missing - a sketchbook. I could totally find my afternoons occupied with the Cullen/Hale alliance, the missing puzzle piece to their balance of powers, a trendy stone thrown through their stained-glass routine, an observer with a graphite record. I was comfortable enough with them to be all Jane Goodall in a situation of questionable safety; thus inspired enough that I actually wanted to apply hands to pencil to paper while we traded casual insults with formal insights.

And here I had thought that I'd need to endure Forks without a comfortable niche of friends. Because of course the insults spoke more of acceptance into the ranks than of using me to get under the skin of the unflappable Edward McKittentits - but hey! More's the opportunity to be one of the crew.

I was distracting Edward from a final showdown with Rosalie - hand resting around his ankle, thumb grazing the skin between sock and pants-hem - when I realized I should check the time. Jasper and Alice had engaged me in a discussion of Greek poetry and mythos, perhaps for the greater benefit of Emmett's curiosity (or else we all just liked to Know Shit In Common), and it had carried us past the ninth hour (which had tolled aloud from the grandfather clocks strewn around Le Maison De La Wampyr right about the time we were lamenting the tale of the Minotaur and that had to have been forty minutes ago and wow run-on sentences are like, awesome). I didn't know how to remind Edward that I had a curfew, because I had always trusted Renee's sleeping pills to grant me unabashed leeway.

It was dumb, though, to think for one minute that Edward _wouldn't_ have had me home by ten p.m. on the friggen dot, if not a polite five minutes earlier, because he shifted his ankle out of my grasp to leave the couch in a graceful step, reaching a hand behind without looking. I grab the hand to pull myself from the couch, following Edward up the steps in a light jog, bidding farewell among all the 'we should do this again' and 'you owe me a frag, campness'. As easy as that, we were on the stone of the atrium, my face stuck tight in a grin because HOLY SHIT, EDWARD YOUR FAMILY IS AWESOME AND THEY LIKE ME. Edward leans against a paneled rolling door which I assumed lead to a mudroom or coat closet, thoughtfully looking me over before shouldering the door open to fish out a coat.

"Puh-leeze dude, it's like a two-minute walk to the car."

"The temperature has dropped significantly since sundown." Edward presents me with a simple gray peacoat, which I only take because I don't want to suffer him actually trying to dress me. Again.

"Thanks," I shrug into the coat, hands delving into pockets to make sure I wasn't running off with anyone's housekeys or some shit. "Whose coat is this?"

"Ha, you know what? I don't actually know. My family tends to collect many props over the years, forgotten in their disuse. That _might_ have been my coat, by the shoulders."

"Yeah, I don't really see anybody else trying to rock English Sailor. High collars only really look good on a long neck, and this shade of gray is on the cooler side - compliments the red in your hair. Or the strawberry of Rosalie's blonde."

"You are very observant."

"Mmhm. This is why we should totally fight crime together."

"Oh, obviously; your talents are wasted on highschool."

I laugh, because wow snobby. "Speaking of my sharp observational skill," I prod as we leave the warmth of the house, because self-destructive cycles are a bitch to interrupt, "What was all that weirdness about engagement rings? Emmett barely managed to back himself out of that mess."

Edward's eyes don't storm over so much as fog, a vague reluctance to look at me directly. "I told you. Alice... _saw_ us. Together."

"Married, adopting a chinese daughter? Sweatervests and Sunday Posts? Do I lose all my hair, or do I get to rock the Reed Richards gray?"

"Bernardo," Edward slows his pace, expression going tight in that way it does when he's put on the spot.

"Right, right. Neither a fortune cookie nor an eight-ball be." I brighten, marching ahead down the lonely white gravel road. "Still, though. That probably put you at ease, having that certainty laid out before you. Must have saved you a lotta existential post-Narnia angst."

Edward is a long time answering, "Hardly."

I glance over my shoulder, shoe scuffing at the roadside. Edward is listening intently to something beyond my perception, unmoved as Alice steps out of the trees with worry etched at the corners of her mouth. "Today is the tenth, right?" Her voice is wavering, an undercurrent of fear or anger or - "It's too fucking early. The calendar in the kitchen was knocked loose when that plate hit it. It's not June. It's only March. Fuck, Ed, I saw the calendar wrong..."

Edward is suddenly behind me, ignoring my protest as his fingers close in a vice grip around my elbow. "Carlisle is talking to them. They have the scent. There are three. Healthy. Fed." His grip relaxes.

"Three what? Three who?"

Alice guards my other side. "Fuck, Edward, I am so sorry." A hiccough, suspiciously like a sob. "We can't fight them. Not now, not like this. None of us -"

"We don't have to fight." Edward tugs me on toward the car. "We're leaving."

"Aaaand we're ignoring my questions entirely. Awesome. Could you not steer me around like a toddler, while we're at it?"

"_Charlie_," Alice hisses. "Get. In. The car."

But I'm not getting in the car because the car is still ten feet away, and beyond the silver curve of the Volvo's hood are three figures at the roadside. At first glance they are unremarkable - not as pale as Edward's family, nor as haggard or sickly. But as they step away from the Volvo I can see their hikers' khaki and flannel is in muddy tatters. The woman's hair was wild and red like she'd stepped out of Klimt's bit of canvas. The man closest to us had wavy dark hair and a sharp, toothy grin; a smear of mud just under his chin and a preternatural calm that seemed to command the attention of his entourage.

"Ah, and this is your family?" Dark-eyes spoke with a hint of French (Canadian?), approaching. I looked back toward the house, where Esme and Rose stood at the front door with grim expressions.

Carlisle came from the other side of the road, hands in the pockets of his slacks. "Yes, these are my descendants. Edward, Charles, Alice. This is Laurent; his companions Victoria and James." He doesn't point us out individually, and Alice has grabbed my coat front to put herself between me and the trio, propping the high collar tighter around my neck, smiling and laughing as if we had just shared a joke. Edward is tense beside us, nodding along with the introductions. I'm afraid to move, afraid to breathe. My smile feels heavy in the cold night air, arm anchored around Alice's slim waist.

Laurent steps around the car, Victoria and James following close on his heels. "And you all live in this magnificent house? However do you manage it?" He glances between us and Carlisle, genuinely curious, following Carlisle's amble past the car, past us. James, whose hair and skin and eyes all share the same light brown, eyes Edward warily as they cross paths. James' nostrils flare wide in an otherwise listless face, attention skipping over us before Laurent urges him to indulge in Carlisle's hospitality. Laurent goes on, "Have you been feeding? Not in the area, surely?"

"No," Carlisle's frown is controlled. "In fact, those three are on their way to Seattle right now. We feed in moderation; at a number that any major city would count par to the crime rate." We are behind them at last, Alice squishing me to the side of the car as Edward opens the passenger door and -

Cabin pressure. When air is redistributed from a closed vessel as it equalizes through its suddenly changed state, causing a wind. I'm half bent like a socialite evading paparazzi when my hair falls forward in the small woosh of a new car's opening door. Hair that Edward had tugged from its band not hours prior. Stupid fucking coconut conditioner. I'm in the car, watching in the side-view mirror as Carlisle, Laurent and Victoria stroll so casually to the Cullen/Hale residence. James has stopped, a rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed monster in the middle of a bone-white road. Head snapped around over his shoulder like something out of a Creepypasta gif. From the few yards between us, he winks at me - then turns his direction back to his companions. Warning; creepers in mirror might be closer than they appear.


	21. TWENTY ONE (corey smith lyrics)

**: X :**

_If you aren't googling the songs I name these chapters  
after, I will be sore disappoint. And man oh man, thank  
you Danie86; I can't respond to comments if you aren't  
logged in when you leave them, so I'll just say here that  
I FORGOT ABOUT THIS STORY FOR A WHILE AND FOR  
THAT I AM SO EFFING SORRY._

_At least it's given me a lot of time to be able to look back_  
_and edit/clarify the writing. And that's always good. :)_

_Secondly, how weird is it that this rewrite has existed_  
_long enough for CDs AND flip-phones to go relatively_  
_out of style? Technology is bananas to keep up with._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY ONE**: Run Lola, Run

* * *

The car ate up the white gravel until it was eating up dirt country road, then turned the wrong way onto dew-damp blacktop.

"My house is -"

Low, furious, Edward growls, "Keep your peace, Bernardo."

Which was fancy-dude talk for 'shut the fuck up'. I did as asked, hand apprehensively braced against the thrumming dashboard, watching the road pass under us, yellow and white lines disappearing like ribbons under a sewing machine's feed. Seven minutes crawled by, agonizing in their silence. We were driving fast, and far, and my heart lodged itself in my throat when Edward turned the headlights off going eighty down that unlit stretch of highway.

My voice is cracked at the edges, "Didn't know Volvos came with stealth mode."

Alice answers when it becomes obvious Edward isn't going to, "Rose knows how to work with newer engines. I haven't learned yet, so you'd have to ask her how she bypassed the safety circuit. You're going to want a left, here at the seventh mile," she seems to be reading from the backlit square of her iPhone.

"How could you read the calendar wrong!" Edward snaps, wrenching the car sharply into what I'm going to go ahead and call 'not a road'. Trees pass in a dark blur, underbrush smacking the side of the car in wet snaps.

"I wasn't the one who threw the plate!" Alice's voice is equally loud, high in its panic before it drops to a shaking rasp, "Charlie, I am so sor -"

The car slams to a halt, skidding through mud and foliage before rattling in its frame as the passenger side kisses what is probably a very large tree. There is a hand at my chest, keeping me pressed back into the seat, before it curls into the front of the loaned coat and hauls me, over the divider of the fronts seats, past the driver seat and out the door, my legs never getting the chance to meet the ground.

But the shoulder I'm thrown over is much broader than Edward's, the fabric under my clutching fingers thin and close-fitting, a muscle-shirt. The heel of my palm slides down in an attempt to prop myself upright and I snatch my hand back, having gotten way too close to touching Emmett's ass just then. I get a bare glance of the Jeep - mudding bars and stormlights turning it into a veritable tornado-safe cage - before I'm shoved into its back seat, Alice's pale face squashed into view as she pulls straps from over my shoulder to a buckle between my legs - an act which went highly fucking protested, believe me.

"South," Edward demands, he and Emmett taking up the front seats. The plastic-vellum top of the Jeep had been rolled down and secured, leaving us eerily exposed to the night air, which whistled past the padded bars as we gained speed. Emmett drove south, to a road I didn't recognize. I couldn't hear the words clear enough as they spoke above the rushing wind, and kept my eyes glued to the side of Edward's face - which waxed and waned into view as his mouth formed words that wouldn't carry. Emmett's voice was an indistinct rumble beside Edward's quipped bark of commands - either they were fighting or they were agreeing very intensely.

I tried to lean forward, found the movement impossible, and reached a hand to flap at Edward's shoulder, shouting, "Where are we going?" The Jeep blazes through a blinking red light at an empty intersection. Nobody replies. I withdraw my hand from its frantic scrabble at the back of Edward's seat and finger the harness buckles.

Alice snatches my hand away, squeezing my fingers. Her voice barely carries, "We have to draw a starter-line with your scent, so they won't know which way to follow when we split up."

"And go fucking _where_?" I shout, rocking to slam my shoulders back against the seat, swallowing as my head rolls to regard Alice, defeated.

Alice looks lost, hair tousled by the ride, and does not answer for too long a breath, then - "As far away as we can get."

"I have to call Charlie," but even as my free hand is trying to dig under the harness to get past the coat and into my pocket, Edward is THERE, all up in my face, perched dangerously between the two front seats, one knee sinking between me and Alice. His hand reaches down the same path mine had wriggled, into my pocket. My eyes go wide, I thrash, snatching at the steel grip as it pulls my phone free, away, gone - first a snap, the hinge breaking backwards, then a casual toss from the vehicle - and I can't even see where it lands, as dark as it is down that road, as stuck as I am to the seat. By the time I give up trying to crane my head back, lungs squeezed into shriveled knots, Edward has returned to his seat, facing ahead.

"You can't do this." I'm calm. Detached. _Certain_. They can hear me. I don't have to yell. "He's _a Police Officer_. Do you think he'd just let his kid run the fuck away without bringing all the king's horses and all the king's fucking men on down to investigate?"

Alice squeezes my hand again, pulling it into her lap, folding small, cold, bony fingers between mine. I start to shake, and close my eyes the same way I had closed them on my first roller-coaster ride. Embracing the uncertainty, trying to swallow down my panic to keep from barfing, letting the world disappear under my feet. I breathed in. My thoughts raced - it wasn't like I'd never done something as stupid and cruel as run away from home, but it was different when the threat of 'forever' loomed ominously around in all the stony and over-tragic silence of the present company. My lips part, wind-chapped, "Ed. Talk to me."

Edward's voice carries from the front, and I have to hold my breath to hear it. "They want you. The hunter, specifically. James. I heard his thoughts - his companions would do nothing to stop him. It is an... illness, of his. It keeps all three on the move; finding no friends among those whose territories they pillage to serve his obsessions."

I'm cold. I'm colder than I've ever been, shaking so hard my teeth rattle if I don't keep my jaw clenched.

Alice leans in to inform me further, "Seven years ago, I dreamt of their arrival, and could only use a calendar I had spotted in the dream as the clue for when exactly those three might darken our doorstep. We had a plan for that night, to kill the hunter - it was shown that the one we know as Laurent would not have protested the attack, and indeed would act against Victoria's interference to keep her safe from Carlisle's justice." Her eyes are glassy under the pass of another stoplight. "I was wrong. The dreams are like that, sometimes. Vague, inaccurate, misleading. Charlie. You died on a glowing white road, and I didn't know who you were or what that white road even was - all I saw was a calendar in a house of glass, this family, and _them_." One of her shoulders hitches up defensively, "And your truck beside you, off the road. If that much is different, if _so much_ is already so different from my dream, we can change it _more_."

I have to look away, shaking my head, tears burning. It was only kind of _too much_, or maybe just _way too fucking much_ entirely. I had already been skeptical about the whole 'vampires with ~powers~' spiel, but this? I was going to vomit. The roller-coaster had already gone upside down and was now spinning ruthlessly faster with each new hill. Jaw wobbly with the shivers, "So what do we do?"

Alice keeps folding her hands over mine, smoothing at the base of my thumb, working at a pressure-point with her fingertips. "We have options."

From Edward, "We have _no_ other options. Our original ambush does not work if the hunter knows his mark - he'll want Laurent by his side." Turning to regard Alice, to plea with me, "We _must_ take you out of their reach, to buy time, to _regroup_. Carlisle might make an appeal to -"

"What the fuck about _my_ _dad_, you arrogant fucksock!" I strangle the harness as it digs against the side of my neck. "What about them following my scent to where _it fucking came from_, huh?"

"They won't find you there!" Edward argues, as if he wasn't actually _listening_ to my very valid _concerns_. My vision swam with red, ears ringing, kicking out at his seat, knee thumping impotently against the flimsy stretch of vellum.

"But WHAT A-BOUT MY FA-THER?"

Emmet finally looks away from the road to echo this worry, and Alice joins the chorus - "If we just take him like this, it will mean another move. Another round of name-changes, of starting over financially, educationally - Carlisle would have to re-train for his doctorate. Think, Edward."

Emmett is already slowing the Jeep, and Alice presses on - "We can get Charlie out of here in a way that won't bring the hammer down on us." To me, "You have a living mother, right? I mean, she just lives apart from you? Is it somewhere far away, your mother's house?"

Relief sweeps in, and I can hardly speak through the breath I let out - "Yes. Arizona."

Alice jabs a finger in my face, "Your mom got sick. You _have to_ visit her."

I shake my head, an ache settling in my gut alongside the disappointment. "They aren't that kind of divorced couple; Charlie would check up on Renee if she ever got seriously ill or injured." I don't have to speak as loud, the wind no longer whizzing past the Jeep. "But I can get myself out of Charlie's house with a different excuse." I am allowed to take my hand back, and unbuckle the harness at long last so I can sit forward, hovering over Edward's shoulder. "How are your acting skills, babe?"

Edward turns his head to regard me uncertainly, mouth opening but no answer forth-coming. He exhales, shakes his head.

"Awesome. Just be your usual moody self, maybe glower with a dash of extra teenaged angst." I pat his shoulder. "Leave the Jeep right now, get your Volvo. Meet me at my house, I'll be packed with an all-clear for take-off."

Edward protests, "I'm not leaving your side while James yet lives."

"I can get your car," Alice offers, and is gone in a blink.

I squeeze Edward's arm. "It has to be just you in the car, and you have to look _tortured_. Put some Kurt Cobain on the stereo if it'll help."

"Some mishap will have befallen _me_, is what you propose?"

"Yeah." I'm mostly perched forward because the back seat is too empty and exposed for my liking, at these speeds, in this dark. "Your parents will have just kicked you out for being a queerbutt."

Emmett slows the Jeep to take a turn, then amps the speed in steady increments. To Edward, "Charlie can leave his coat with me, I'll air it out for some more false leads. You should text Carlisle, get everybody to meet somewhere, some central point we can break the scent up even further."

Edward is a long time in responding, but there is a passivity in his answer that reassures me. "We could trade clothing, one item per, mask his scent with ours, ours with his."

"Good idea, but y_ou_ don't need to do that," Emmett sounds nearly scornful. "And you _know_ why you can't take the same plane he'll be on. You fucking smell like -"

"I'm _not_ to leave his side!"

"THEN MAYBE YA SHOULDN'TA FUCKED YASELF INTA THIS CORNER," Emmett bellows, Jersey rage brought up in the face of everybody's tension. "YOU smell th' most like Charlie, so YOU gotta go the most opposite fuckin' direction! Don't shit the _fucking_ bed on this, here!" ('Chahlie', 'heah', 'dy-rection'.)

I don't speak. I've been startled out of my panic, eyebrows raised at Emmett's outburst. I'd be embarrassed if it were any other circumstance, and Alice _did_ hint that it was kind of a huge stupid hassle living with an involuntary sense of hearing. Or smelling, even.

Emmett goes on, wrenching the Jeep down another left to start back north - "An' you KNOW Jasper's got the most sway in gettin' Charlie through airport security fast-like, as he gotta do, 'cos we want him ta be duckin' fast-like the fuck outta view, don't we? Edward?" Glancing quickly between road and Edward, Emmett continues to pester for a confirmation and even asks Edward to admit it louder when he finally does answer.

"I said you're right! You'll go with them, then? In case -"

"I'm in Carlisle's hunting party. We'll get this guy got, don't worry. We confirm which lead he'd be followin', regroup, then _bag_ the conniving stinkweasel." The Jeep slows, a vehicle up the road flashing its lights as it approaches. Both cars stop there in the road, one facing the other, engines idle.

The trade is a rush that leaves me dizzy and overly man-handled in the passenger seat of the Volvo, seatbelt secured over a torso now devoid of coat. "You owe me a phone," I choke out as Edward revs the engine.

"Give Charlie Jasper's number as your contact. Can you remember the number, right now? Seven digits, ten plus area code? Bernardo, I don't have a pen, can you remember the number? To give to Charlie?"

I realize I'm nodding and not verbalizing, but when I try to say that yes I could remember a stupid bunch of numbers, I'm not so sure. "I could just call him from Jasper's phone, give it to him then, tell him it's yours" I mumble, mentally exhausted. "He's going to think I'm with you. That we're going to some motel because I can't stop you from leaving Forks and I'd rather you not be alone right now. That's the story, in case he calls you in from the car," because _god_ that would be just like Charlie, getting all up in the middle of some teenaged drama with his _reason_ and his _parental concern_ bullshit. "That you're operating in a panic, that you've lived this Pleasantville-perfect life up until the big boyfriend reveal, and you _just_ can't handle the rejection because it's never something you've ever faced, and certainly not from the people who loved you so much as to _adopt_ your orphan ass. Lotta abandonment issues got triggered, here. Can you pull something out of that? If you needed to?"

Edward's silence is brief, but somehow that short pause makes itself all the more powerful, as if he's not stalling so much as completely unsure of how to proceed. "You... came up with all that just now?"

"Buddy," I chuckle, mouth dry. "I'm in _theater_."


	22. TWENTY TWO

**: X :**

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY TWO** : Get Me to the Church on Time

* * *

Edward drove, busy at his phone.

I freed myself from the seatbelt, perching on the edge of my seat with an arm braced against the dashboard, looking forward into the dark pass of road, anxious for what might be out there.

As if to address this anxiety, Edward reads the latest report off his phone, "Carlisle and Rosalie are keeping the trio company back at the house. We have a bit of time to gather your belongings and stage the exit." His jaw tightens, car gliding smoothly around a branch in the road, thumb busy at the keyboard of his phone - multitasking like a motherfucker, basically, and me there with nothing but my figurative thumb up my figurative ass.

"So ... if I'm not here, in Forks, is this James guy just going to kill somebody else? Your family is going to take him out before he can _do_ that, right?"

Edward shakes his head in a small, furious shiver. "While it's true that he doesn't want _you_, necessarily, he wants the challenge of _getting_ you. Alice put herself between the two of you, and he wanted to know _why_. That we were protecting you sparked his curiosity, and now he's _certain_ that you're his next 'intended'. The fact that there are obstacles, that _my family_ is an obstacle, only convinces him at the very core of his ego that it's his _right_, as the stronger predator, to take you from us." There is a crack there at the edges of Edward's explanation, and I am far from fucking reassured by any of the info. Edward continues, "I don't know what he'll do once you're out of town, I only know his immediate urge as it came to his thoughts - and yes, Carlisle's pact with the Quileute demands that we keep all within our territory safe from our kind, but right now, Bernardo, with what I know - _you're_ the target. You're the only target he is focused on, and the only one he _needs_ to pursue, to prove... _something_." Edward's bafflement is palpable, and I decide it's unfair to ask questions he might not know the answers to.

"The James guy is a crazy stalker-hobo, and obsessive people can be obsessive because _reasons_. Got it." I shift in place, elbow on the dash, knee tucked up under my chin. "Six against three - what's stopping your family from taking them all out _right now_?"

Edward's expression tells me everything, the pale waxy stretch of skin in the glow of the dashlights going taut with discomfort. "Carlisle has studied the effects of the photosensitivity in our cells, and it is by the grace of our starvation that we can recover so readily from direct exposure to sunlight. But there's a price to living the way we do, for my family and I. Healthy cells, the cells in the bodies of our visitors, are swollen with the matter they break down from their diet - as individuals they would be warm to the touch, hale, and... strong. Stronger than us. In sunlight, their cells would shrink with the same rapidity as ours do, and rupture. This would not kill them - but it _would_ weaken their cell structure and put their strength on a more equal footing with ours."

"And I'm gonna guess that would make an _unholy fucking mess,_ too, right?"

Edward laughs, "Bit like watching a sponge squeezed too fast, yes."

"Paper bag full of vegetable soup dropped from a rooftop? _Splat_?"

"If we could find a way to expose them to the daylight, 'splat' indeed." Edward's voice drops a pitch as he reads a new text; "Carlisle is trying to reason with Laurent. James has just made his claim verbal."

"Are they gonna be okay? They aren't -" There is a rock in my gut, breath going short - "They aren't, like, in _danger_, your family? Right now?"

Edward doesn't answer. I count the seconds - one mississippi, two mississippi, twenty seconds pass... forty-one mississippi... fifty-six mississippi... A full minute.

I remove the hank of inner cheek-flesh from between my molars. "So what's the game plan, here? I'm - I can come back to Forks eventually, right? It's not like this guy is impossible to kill, or anything? Not that, y'know," I babble, voice reedy, "That your family would really _want_ to kill anyone, psychotically obsessive people-eater or no."

"We _do_ seek an end to James himself, as well as anyone who might follow their impulses to such a damaging degree. Your involvement is only a complication in a plan we'd long been working toward, in case he or someone like him might threaten our family, threaten our tenuous foothold in this public life. Carlisle puts a lot of forethought and effort into our safety, and now that includes your safety, too."

I croak, "Why?"

Edward laughs bitterly, shrugging. "_Idealism_, Bernardo. Do not mistake Carlisle's protection as altruistic - you would not live if you did not hold some purpose to his gain, future or present."

"... You were _totally_ going to kill me just to spite your dad." I amend this accusation with the fucking quickness, "I mean, that was like, a _possibility_ at some point, wasn't it?"

Edward's grimace is all the answer I need, but he does a pretty good job of trying to make an excuse - "The only time I ever ran the risk - and still run the risk - of killing you would be at the fact that I am quite literally _starving_. That your end might have stymied some effort of Carlisle's to strengthen his 'collective' would have come as a boon; but on the whole I never _wanted_ to kill you. Both that I don't want my family hurt, and that I don't want to have to kill others just to be able to live."

I breathe. Trees pass. Streetlights pass, buildings, shopfronts. A turn down this road, a change of lane onto another. More trees pass. There were only a few things that had ever really kept me from certain death in Edward's company - and something told me that my rakish good looks and punky charm had nothing to do with any of it. The Quileute treaty, Carlisle's house rules, maybe even Edward's own idealism on the value of human life - all had at one point served as my only saving grace. Edward loved his _family_ - that wasn't to say that he couldn't or didn't love me, but I knew where my value stood in this situation, and that realization was both humbling and, okay, sure, _understandable_.

As I warned you earlier, dear readers, my chickadees and droogs; suddenly, my life wasn't all about me. There was something bigger looming over all of this, something impossibly vast, laying just out of reach. I felt close to understanding, once or twice, but the matter would only clarify once it was much, much too late to change anything. In the immediate meanwhile, I was just plain fuckin' _worried_. Worried that the people I had only just begun to know could get hurt, maybe even lethally so, at the hands of the creatures they worked so hard to be so unlike. Worried that my dad could get underfoot in all this, that even though the treaty demanded it of them, the Cullens wouldn't be _able_ to keep him safe.

I was shaking by the time we pulled up to Charlie's house, and left the car only to crawl back in, kissing the side of Edward's tense face. He caught me by the hair - and if ever there was _yet another_ inappropriate moment for my loins to go all twitchy, this would have been it - to return the kiss, knuckles curled against the back of my head.

"Fifteen minutes," Edward warned, releasing me. "And that's a generous estimate on how long it's going to take James to extricate himself from Carlisle's hospitality," his words float after me as I cross the yard. My stomach goes hideously ill the short journey to the safety of the porchlight.

It didn't seem like Charlie was home, or awake, like maybe he could have gone out with old Billy Black or else turned in early to spare us both the 'you're late blah blah blah I hope you used a rubber' speech. But his cruiser was in the driveway and the sound of late-night cable heralded my entry through the front door.

"Hey," I greeted, waving my hand in front of the t.v. to see if Charlie was still awake and actually, y'know, watching that garbage. "I gotta talk to you." I turn and climb the stairs briskly, hearing Charlie exhale with a long-suffering sigh before his chair squeaks and the heavy plod of his boots follow me up. I leave my bedroom door open, pulling my suitcase out from under my bed. Seemed like not a week had passed before I had unpacked its measly contents into this room, and here I was with an entirely different life to try and reduce to a three-by-three foot square.

"Woah now, where we goin'?" Charlie blinks in the bright light of my room's overhead, rubbing at the circles under his eyes.

"Um," I laugh, voice warbling. "I don't know, yet. But I promise to call you when we get there."

"An actual 'we'?" Charlie seems completely removed from the level of alarm I am radiating, and for this I think I can admire the guy. He is a cop, after all.

I'm only packing two sets of clothes, a set of pyjamas, the travel-case of toiletries I'd used on the bus here. "Yeah, I kinda hafta - " I search for the right word, " - _babysit_ someone for a while. Which maybe isn't the right way to say that," another nervous laugh, hands shaking as they grab up my laptop and pad it into the suitcase with spare socks and fresh underwear. "So uh, Edward's family? Not as progressive as you. That's a long story short, believe me, and Edward? Yeah, Edward's kicked out. Which I guess sort of makes _me_ kicked out, from the Cullens, ehah -" I'm rearranging the suitcase with furious, short movements, tossing in a hoodie and a bomber jacket just for padding.

Charlie doesn't radiate the confusion I expect him to. He sighs again, slow and heavy, moustache bristling out in a fidget as he leans against the doorjamb, arms crossed. "You want to maybe invite Edward in here, so we can sit down and talk this mess over?"

"I would!" I shout, hand-illustrations exaggerated, _fed up_. "I _did_! He just wants - he's too fucking _embarrassed_, like, to _talk_. He isn't _being_ reasonable, he just wants to _leave_ like, fucking _immediately;_ and right now, Dad," I plead, "I don't want to leave him all alone to deal with this bullshit." The tears are starting, and I don't even have to fake them. "He said he doesn't want another _adoption_ - I mean, _I_ know you're probably the coolest parental figure that like, ever saw daylight, right?"

Mouth pressed up, Charlie nods, glancing to the floorboards in reluctance.

"But Ed's practically legal and he just wants to be under his own roof right now. Shit went _bad_, it hit the fan so hard it turned into a fine mist, and just, right now - Dad, for tonight, I _cannot_ just leave him all alone." I breathe deep and even, trying to calm down, to state my case the way a mature, responsible adult might have.

Charlie straightens, filling the doorway with a wider stance. "Are you asking me permission, or telling me that this is what you're going to do?"

"Seventeen," I zip the suitcase over the sketchbook I had laid flat over what now counted as the entirety of my worldly belongings.

"Yes, Chuck. You're _only_ seventeen, so you can't just -"

"That's how many grown men I've fucked."

You could hear the air get sucked right out of the room.

I amend, hauling the suitcase strap over my shoulder, "Twelve of those were guys my age, but the other five?" I eyeball Charlie, stepping close. "Not too much younger than Renee. One was her boyfriend, once." I nod, casual, knees weak despite the resolution I'm trying to force into every layer of my being.

Charlie doesn't budge. His glare is furious under thick, questioning eyebrows. He might be hurt, but I can't tell.

"I wasn't kicked out of Renee's house for drugs, or misdemeanor shenanigans with my peers, Charlie. I was kicked out for having an _affair_ with my _art teacher_." It doesn't seem like it's enough, because I don't think I'm really winning myself any points toward him letting me leave. "Those twelve guys my own age, that I had 'sexually mature' relationships with? One of them is dead, and two others wound up in the hospital, all suicide. All kicked out by their parents. All after they had already moved on from my immediate friendship." My voice breaks again, breath coming in a stutter, "Are you going to step out of the way and let me help this beaver-cleaver kid in his time of crisis, or do I need to emancipate my fat ass on out of your ability to stop me?"

Charlie shifts from foot to foot, eying me up as if maybe he might actually try and pull some police fucking tactics to keep me put. "Are you coming back?"

Relief hits me broadside, a tidal wave that leaves me dizzy. "_Yes_," I rasp, because my voice isn't working; tears tumbling, one at a time, hot over the bottom of my eyes. "I have a test in algebra on Tuesday," I joke, swiping at my face. "And I plan on trying to convince Ed to ah, like," a short, embarrassed laugh as Charlie steps away from the door, holding his arm out as if to say 'go ahead', "Stick it out with the Cullens until he can get into college. Tell them it was just a phase, keep our friendship on the down-low, all that fun jazz."

Charlie traps me in a hug as I'm passing through the door with the suitcase, and he squeezes as I make the effort to clap an arm around him in return. "No longer than a week," he warns, taking up the strap of my suitcase as he releases me, leading the way down the stairs. "And you're going to _call me_. Every hour that you're awake. I'm going to get Lindsey on the horn in the morning to see if she can't fax over some of the documents Ed is going to need to start claiming himself as an independent." We both hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs with resounding stomps, "If he was a ward of the state it'll be easier to make his case. Might not even come to a hearing, but that would depend on the social worker he's assigned to."

I hug Charlie again, a proper hug, and he kisses me right on the face and I don't even flinch away from the grody dad-smell. I take up the suitcase, pull a spare hoodie from the coat-hanger. Charlie opens the front door for me. Charlie follows me out and down off the porch, screen door banging loose on its hinges.

I turn, paused halfway between the house and Edward's idling car, from which 'Icky Thump' had been blasting like so much angsty teenaged backdrop.

"Maybe you should drive," Charlie advises, holding his hand up as if to get Edward's attention.

I nod, approaching the driver's side of the car. I open the back door, throw my luggage in, mumbling near Edward's shoulder, "Slide on over, because you're emotionally compromised." Which was probably redundant information to someone who would have been listening very intently to Charlie's thoughts, but we had to go through the motions for appearances. I straighten from the car, shut the back door, pry the front door open as Edward slides reluctantly to the passenger seat. He sulks into the fold of his hand, elbow set on the door's window ridge.

Charlie is calling out, and I roll my side's window down to hear him, "Place on I-10 has a weekly rate for the truckers, hundred bucks or so. Don't talk to any strangers!" Expression stuck between worry and resolution, Charlie props his fists against his waist as I pull the Volvo carefully back down the muddy driveway. "And you're on a budget - I can wire you up to two-hundred but after that, _that's it_, you two come home." He puts his hands around his mouth to holler, "Edward, that means you too! ASAP!"

I honk the car horn as we pull away, wondering if this was the last opportunity I would ever get to feel so proud of my dad.

I drive. Edward remains slumped, attention glued to his phone. "Take this exit and follow the signs to the storage unit lot. The gates will be open."

I take the exit, blurting as the left turn goes a little wide, "I don't like this car. You have to know that. It handles like a fucking oversensitive lawnmower; and how often have you had this thing detailed since I've known you? Twice? It's a shit car, dude." I'm numb, ludicrously so. "It's a _shit_ car within-and-around which only _shit_ things happen. Before I leave, to go where-the-fuck-ever, you need to hear it from me." I thump the steering wheel while Jack White wails nonsensically. "I. Hate. Your. Volvo. The _school_ hates your Volvo. The _world_, obviously - _obviously_ hates this Volv - _your_ fucking Volvo. Fate has consistently conspired, and will continue to conspire, _against_ your shitty-ass, fucking, _Volvo_!"

Edward looks up from his phone, rolls his head to stare at me. He looks back down at his phone, typing. I don't think he's got any sort of response, and am straining forward to keep an eye out for any storage-lot signs, when Edward does eventually speak. "I feel as if I'm about to send a half of myself away with somebody I don't wholly trust, to enact a plan I don't entirely believe will work. I like this car, Bernardo. I like the gas mileage, I like the paint color, I like the size of its cabin and I _like_ the way it handles. But if this 'fucking Volvo' bothers you that much, I will personally rend it to its most basic parts and _burn it to cinders. _Does that convince you? That I -"

"I don't need convincing of shit," I hiss, and the anger feels so, so much better than that pit-of-the-stomach fear I'd had rotting inside of me since we'd left the Cullen house. "I need you to not be such a dweeb the next time I see you. Can you do that for me, buddy? Show up in like a, fuck, I don't know car types, just make it a fucking limo to be safe, or something." There's a promise in there, a light-hearted reassurance hidden behind the criticism. Edward would see me again, and he'd have to acknowledge that reassurance, and we would both have to calm the fuck down about all this. "Or a motorcycle, maybe? No, make it a fucking _helicopter_. I want SWAT levels of rushing-in-to-the-rescue to go down, does that sound doable to you?"

Out of the side of my view I can see Edward nodding, no smile yet but maybe he's caught on to the absurdity. "Alice is going to stay behind at the airport terminal to report the all clear, and will follow you and Jasper once we know which direction James is headed. We're going to meet our point-men at the storage unit to trade vehicles, and clothing. Er. Point-_women_."

"Show up on a fucking dragon if you can swing it. Ride a _horse_. Ride a _donkey_. Anything, babe, but this fucking car. Do you hear me?"

Finally, a glimmer of a smile, brief and sad, and I only glimpse its fade back to pained introspection because I am otherwise occupied with driving the vehicle in question. I put the blinker on, take the turn into the gravel entrance of the storage lot, and breeze on past its wide-open chainlink gates. I don't need directions to the unit - there is a square of light flooding the furthest platform on the first row immediately in front of us and I stamp the gas to reach this point, tires skidding on gravel as I brake. The keys aren't even removed from the ignition before Edward has me out of the driver's side door and into the storage unit, a ten-by-ten foot mini-garage in its row of similar mini-garages - this one wide open, empty but for a handful of Cullens.

And a dark-haired Laurent, there in the corner, looking cleaned-up and guilty.

Edward is visibly surprised the moment he spots the company, tensing at my elbow.

Carlisle pries me gently away, clapping me on the shoulder in a brisk greeting as he addresses his eldest 'son', "Laurent has something to tell you, Edward."

As I am shuffled to a corner for privacy, Laurent's softly accented voice delivers its piece - "I am filled with regret, for what I have unleashed on this town. James has never been mine to command, but perhaps there was something I might have done in his early years, to end him."

Emmett is without pants, and then I am without pants, and then I'm wearing Emmett's pants, which fit me in the waist but are too long in the leg and maybe aren't supposed to cling all _that_ tightly around my dumb fat ass.

Laurent continues, "The best I could do, at our Matron's command, was to keep him from the mortal eye. Guide his impulses, help to reign them in. Over the years I have seen that this is a misguided effort, and even Hellena has withdrawn her favor and protection."

Then Esme takes my overshirt while Alice accepts my t-shirt, and it's Alice's v-neck that goes over my pasty torso; Esme pulls my arms through a cashmere sweater, wrapping me up in a bracing snuggle. I hadn't noticed, but the night air had only gotten colder and my breath was visible in the sterile overhead lighting. The shiver had been such a near-constant that I hadn't felt its return until the hug, and I smiled in thanks as Esme pulled away to wipe at tears that I realized would never show on her face no matter how genuine her distress. The sweater was baggy, misshapen by the obvious use it had been given over who knew how long, and smelled very strongly of Esme, potpourri and sickly-sweet formaldehyde.

Laurent's words had implored, explained, apologized as I had been undressed and redressed, and eventually those words offered something useful. "It has come to me now, this opportunity, to take action against Jameson D'Larne. To see him blooded in the daylight and destroyed by a jury of his peers, for the crimes he has committed against holders of territories and protectors of stock."

"I believe you," Edward answered, stony. Then, to Carlisle, "We can trust him."

Laurent pauses only momentarily at that exchange, and goes on, "I would advise that we wait in our counter-attack, for the family in Denali to join our efforts. Never in my three-hundred years have I considered myself capable of besting James, and this rings especially true since his decision to Patron Victoria."

"How much time do you need us to buy?" Alice chimes in, lookin' butch as fuck in my Beatles T-shirt. I don't hear Laurent's answer, as Edward has quite suddenly lifted me away to the sound of an approaching engine - a particularly glamorous red M3 by the rumble. The 'twins' exit their car in a sudden blare of music that is clapped back to a dull roar as their doors shut behind them, and they stride past Edward and I to join the meeting. I don't hear what they have to say, either, because my ears have started to ring from all the ratcheting-up of my blood pressure.

Edward grabs my face - like that's a thing he actually does with both his hands like uh dude wow not like I've got anywhere to go - and kisses the spot between my nose and my cheek.

"That's lame," I complain, arms wrapping around Edward's waist. "You oughta be counting my tonsils right now."

Edward's reply is, as always, blithe and slightly condescending, "_You_ ought to be relaxing. I've heard your heart these past hours, and fear you'll expire long before anything gets near enough to even attack you." His hand slides down the side of my neck, fingertips at my pulse. "How long ago did you pick up smoking, and how long since you've cut back?"

I push forward with a dismissive scoff, kissing at Edward's long column of throat with a big obnoxious smack of my lips. Our arms are tangled, detangled, wrapping around each other in something a little less publicly decent than a hug. I hear the familiar growl of Emmett's Jeep start up the next row over, car doors shut around us, voices carry wishing each other caution and luck. I'm walked back against the side of the Hales' convertible. I am kissed deeply, a cold mouth with all the taste and temperature of a sink faucet. The passenger door is opened for me. Edward follows me half in, lingering with his nose pressed against mine as he buckles my seatbelt. I don't have anything epic, reassuring, or funny to say.

The car door shuts.

_Head and the Heart_ is playing 'Lost in My Mind' on the stereo, melancholy folk-rock asking someone's brother how his engine is running, how's that brick-laying coming, is that bridge getting built, are his hands getting filled? Jasper is there already in the driver's seat, and punches the car into reverse. We tear down the graveled row after the Jeep, tires gripping us into chest-lurching traction once they meet blacktop, while _Head and the Hear_t fills the small space between my ears with a wailing plea; won't you tell me my brother, 'cos there are stars - up above.


	23. TWENTY THREE

**: X :**

_Cover Image provided by the indispensable  
__PrivatePomegranate (Hentai Foundry). Me _  
_love you long time, Soldier._

_And yes, really, Twilight's narration is all_  
_in past tense, and yes it drives me nuts._

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY THREE** : Interim

* * *

Jasper's phone was small, thin. Brushed aluminum and glass, heavy. The name brand on the casing was Swedish. I was afraid to hold it against my ear, afraid to get human skin-oil all over the magnificent flat surface of that stupidly svelte piece of technology. Charlie Sr.'s voice on the other end of the phonecall was far away, a hail over the curve of the starched pillow on which I was resting my head as we spoke. The hotel room's AC kicked on, a quiet hum. I sat up in the queen-sized bed, stuffing a pillow against my stomach, nodding as I reassured Charlie. Yes, no, yes, yeah, sure.

Uh-huh. Nuh-uh. No, thanks. Yeah, he's - yeah. It's fine.

We're fine.

Jasper listens without being obvious about it, arms crossed as he leans against the corner of the large bathroom, studying the (TACKYASFUCK) geometric patterns of the short-fibre carpeting between the bathroom door and the bed. The curtains over the room's single bay window are drawn shut, heavy and thick, blocking out the orange wash of Phoenix National's busy airport lights. Cowboy Blondie over there had driven us to the airport in Tolusca, sweet-talked us both past security and onto the soonest flight that would bounce us all the way down to Vegas where we would then catch the layover to Phoenix. It was still night by the time we left that plane, _thank fuck_, so there we were, all but trapped in the nearest hotel room we could find to wait out the oncoming Arizona dawn.

For reasons unsaid, I assumed Jasper would be spending much of the daytime hours here in this room. And for reasons more or less _said_, pointed out to me in a verbal-type way, I myself would be spending the night-time hours here in this room - in case we were to be, or had been, followed. I wrapped up the obligatory phone-call with the Sheriff, swallowing back the sharp-edged lump of the idea that I might never see him again.

Mindful that Jasper's phone was the only line between us and what was going down in Forks with the Cullens and all, I thumbed the call's end and glanced up to hand the phone back to its owner, to discover Jasper had gone... _somewhere_. I slid off the bed, peering around into the dark of the bathroom, checking outside the door I hadn't heard open or close, to an empty hotel hallway. The phone jingled in my hand and I nearly dropped it, checking the screen for caller ID. Glancing around the empty room once more as the hall door drifts shut on its weighted hinges, I wave the phone around to offer it helplessly forward to nobody at all, then answer the call.

"Al?"

Obviously surprised, Alice greets, "Oh, ah, Charlie!" She clears her throat, bringing her voice back down an octave. "Hey. You two make land all right?"

"Yep." I settle an arm behind myself, leaning against the room's door, shaking my head because _what the fuck, where did Jasper go_. "We're fine. Got any bad news that needs passing-on?" I wince, because I didn't want to worry anybody unnecessarily if it turned out Jasper was just hanging upside-down in the drapes for a nap or some shit.

Alice brightens. "Good news, actually. Victoria and James have split up. That's going to make it easier for us - especially that they don't seem to know about Edward's talent, nor Carlisle's intent. Laurent has proved - eh, well. He's proved himself, more or less. I'm relieved."

I lick my lips, nodding. "That's good, man. Really. I'm breathing a little easier too, for that," I admit, then a sudden pang of anxiety rams its fist back between my lungs. "They aren't, like, stalking Charlie Sr. or anything?"

"Oh, no." Alice is quiet for a moment, then - "Nothing like that. Edward doesn't think James knows you're even missing, yet, but we can't be sure. He's staying pretty far out of radar since Laurent left him, like maybe he knows he should take some precaution? I get the feeling that things between those two have been sour grapes for a while, before all this I mean."

"Al?"

"Yeah, Charlie?"

"Could you tell me about that dream, again?"

Alice sighs, a discomfited 'eh' trailing on the end of the exhale.

I ducked forward, kicking one leg in front of the other, a crooked pace between the bed and the TV. "Unless you've got more immediate, pressing concerns to attend. I know it's not exactly a game of checkers you all are getting up to back there."

"Oh, Charlie. It's not like _that_." Alice laughs ruefully, and her voice gets very quiet and very close. "You're asking me about a ver~y complicated thing, is all. Because it's never just the _one_ dream. More like a collection - and I sometimes have a hard time separating the factual stuff from the wacky subconscious stuff. We weren't sure you were even a real person until that day in school where Edward nearly - um. When, ah, he noticed you." Another chuckle, this one sad. "And that's not even taking into _account_ when stuff gets _changed_. I honestly can't tell you what could or should happen next - things have deviated so far from the dreams that most of their information is now void. I'd have to take up sleep again, and Edward would have to be there beside me to read the dreams because I wouldn't be able to tell anybody about them - not until I woke up, at least, and that's never a very stable process in and of itself." She says all this in that 'of course' tone of voice that makes me feel all the more ignorant of just what the fuck was even going in.

"Yeah, I heard you guys don't actually sleep for like, years an' years." I take a seat on the corner of the bed, then bend between my knees to reach down and lift the edge of the comforter, checking for any missing Quaker fucks. "Is it that you have to sleep for a long time? When you need to?"

"Yeah." Alice sighs again. "Charlie -"

"Please don't apologize again." I straighten up from my search (empty), splay back against the mattress, scratching fingers through my hair. "If that's what you were about to do. But if you're up to it, I'd like to hear what you saw about me." I hedge further, wheedling - "Good way to pass the time."

"We were friends," Alice starts, and for a brief moment I don't know if this is her telling me about the dream or talking about something else, then - "You and I. I _knew_ you. From a collective of other students - theater maybe - and we were in Forks. I remembered the house from its blueprints when it was just a concept design on Esme's drafting table. Wide open, glass walls. And Edward wasn't there, with us. I think he must have left - there are things that I just _know_ in these dreams, see, like the way you'd just know what you had for breakfast yesterday, or would just know that there was a future holiday coming up in a certain month. It all feels inevitable and so far out of reach, but it's a very _certain_ knowing."

I make a noise of agreement, watching the curtains sway heavy and sluggish in the breeze from the AC.

Alice sounds like she's settling, the scrape of a chair on linoleum, a distant voice paging boarding instructions into the echo of white noise. "So we were friends, and you were coming over for dinner. Carlisle wanted to meet you, wanted to try and find out why Edward hadn't been able to read you - because of course Edward had left, on meeting you, and he wasn't there to um, ask you himself? I ~do~ know that telling Edward about this part of the dream is what changed his mind against leaving us."

"Am I being flattered, here?"

Alice's laugh is a little more loose this time around, a little more cheerful. "I - ah. Sorry, no. You _died_. That. Um. That wasn't so great for the treaty between your Quileute family and us. We all wanted you to _not die_, before we even knew you as a person, and Edward thought maybe he would be instrumental in our inevitable confrontation with your murderer."

I didn't want to correct Alice - Jake and Bill _were_ my family, in a way. And Sam and Quinn, Rachel and Rebecca. All of them. "So _you_ invited me over for albums and video games - and so Carlisle could get a better look at me - and this incidentally led to me being taken out right there in the driveway by some uninvited house-guests? Is the conclusion I can draw?"

"Yes." Alice exhales audibly. "And I read the calendar wrong. There must have been a fight in that dream, too, to knock it to the wrong page - a fight that didn't or couldn't involve Edward, or, oh, I _don't know_. I don't know why something as inconsequential as the lay of a calendar on a wall could be so ass-backwards or so randomly modifiable, Charlie. I don't know why my family is supposed to know you, just like I didn't know why or how they were supposed to know _me_, or Jasper, or any of us -"

"She's lyin'." The room door drifts shut behind Jasper, and he strides forward to hold an orange juice out for me to take as I sit up. "Not ter eavesdrop 'r nothin'."

"You want to talk to Jasper?" I hedge into the phone, already pulling it away from my ear and cheek.

It is to Alice's general noise of assent that Jasper takes the phone, cold fingertips brushing mine. He sniffs once and doesn't seem to let Al get a word in - casually mumbles "Liar," and promptly hangs up with the press of a button. The phone is tossed to the bed beside me and Jasper strides to take up the nearest armchair, unfolding a city map across his knees. "She knows why _you_, she knows why _me_ an' _her_, she just don't wanna jinx it. That's her choice ta keep to herself as a matter of havin' that prophetic curse an' all that bullshit - and don't get me wrong here I owe Carlisle a lot." The map rustles, a sharp declarative snap of the paper. "But we-all are entitled to our God-given right of choice - mebbe especially you, what ain't been so figuratively cast outta that partic'lar circle o' grace." Jasper eyes me sidelong and my budding aggravation shrivels up.

Still, I manage to croak - "_Damn_ but you people have a flair for the dramatic. Could we not? With the vague allusion?"

Jasper smirks. "Whaddya mean 'you people'?"

I wrench the cap off the perspiring bottle of OJ. "Yes. I'm a vampire-racist. You got me."

Jasper's smirk falls and he tilts his head as if to say 'well, I tried', folding the city map carefully back into itself. "Truth is, you wasn't as permanently dead, in that dream, as Al is gonna go ahead and take it on herself ta insinuate. Carlisle got you inta the family, like he like ta do." Jasper stands slowly, like an old man having trouble leaving a particularly comfortable sit. He steps out of his boots, dropping the map to his vacated seat. "But Carlisle couldn'ta patroned you, Esme done already got forbid 'a doing such herself, Al got taken out in the fight with Laurent 'n them, and ol' Masen, 'sides bein' too young ta qualify fer the role, wunnit there to step up ta plate. So Carlisle left it up ta me."

I swallow, hard. The juice remains unsampled in my grip, a citrus waft in the air between us.

Jasper takes a seat on the bed, way up near the headboard, knees splayed, leaning forward like someone trying to explain to a kid that Santa wasn't real. "And it was my death sentence, doin' that to you, but that trade was one Carlisle was willing ta make. Elders get on my ass, Elders get on Carlisle's ass, Quileute get on errybody's ass, and then - " A short, ugly laugh - "And then there's you ta get on the Elders' asses, an' it's just a fuckin' _mess_ - jus' misery an' fightin' and poor stupid Carlisle trynta do all the right things in all the wrong ways."

I am wide-eyed at the foot of the bed, slowly replacing the juice cap with numb, robotic movements. "You _died_?"

"In a more permanent way than I ever have, the heck I did. In Alice's dream, I get tried an' executed - fer breakin' parole, so to speak."

"For um - " I clear my throat, reopen the bottle, take a sip to get the dry off the roof of my mouth. "Change. Changing me? Couldn't you have just _not_? Since you'd all be in trouble with Ephraim's crowd either way?" I try to back out of the question almost immediately - "Not that, y'know, I wouldn't have been grateful. And you seem like an okay person, and I like Al and obviously your whole ah - family -"

"I guess I jus' wanted to." Jasper shrugs, killing every whirring thought in my mind in one fell blow. "Couldn'ta given two shits about Carlisle's agenda, and you'da been unner me 'steada him, which would have been fer the better on all of us. Covens 'r still kinda illegal, and they gets real iffy on just what number of us starts ta count as a large enough collective ta be a threat. I wanted you and I wanted ta leave - so I did that." Another shrug, a slow and easy roll of the shoulders. "Mighta stayed not-entirely-dead if we had hung around with Carlisle, you an' me, but again. Didn't want that particular ax comin' down on Al an' them from both sides - Elders an' Quileute. Least I can guess on my part; that is, when me an' Al put our heads together for ta figger out the how-do and the why-for of all what she seen."

"Are you _fucking with me_?" The question comes out a little louder and angrier than I had been expecting, and I balk, standing from the bed to put my back to the TV, the heels of my palms braced on the table's edge, juice clutched by the neck. "Because I mean, buddy? Hey. It didn't happen, and it's not _gonna_ happen, and really what the _fuck_. Why did you tell me that if we both already know there's - fucking - _deviations_. Because all of that, right there?" I wave a circle in the air, pinching my fingers together as if to gather the words. "That shit is void. Didn't happen, _hasn't_ happened, and won't."

Jasper has already settled back against the headboard, legs kicked up, ankle crossed over ankle. His grin is slow, a sharp tooth flashing as he runs his tongue under his top lip to suck in a chirp of air. " 'Cept if things go south of th' border, durin' all this? If you get got? I'm th' only one Carlisle _knows_ can patron you without medical failure. Bad way ta go, gettin' blooded by someone trynta keep you, only ta find some sorta incompatibility sours the take. Real ugly. Pain. An' they feel that, the patron." Jasper's eyes narrow, and his next words seem to jab at my chest with an accusatory finger. "They feel you die. Like a part 'a them they risked ta carry you along by is now exposed, rejected." Jasper pulls the tattered longsleeves back from his thumbs, over his wrists, rolling the thermal sleeves up, exposing first one arm and then the other. This reveals a network of scars, many, twisting, layered, like lines on a busy city roadmap, knuckles-to-elbows.

I'm glued in place, limbs wooden, fingertips numb. Staring. Mouth shut, hardly breathing.

Jasper crosses his arms, holding the scarred appendages against his stomach as he shrugs into a more comfortable slouch against the headboard. "We know the compatibility holds true, you an' me. We know it 'cos I can what others find they can't, around you. At you. You was calm on the flight here, weren't ya? Fidgety during the layover change, when I had ta focus on other people?"

I swallow. I blink. "What if I highly fucking doubt what you're telling me right now?"

"'Cos I don't feel like provin' it otherwise? If I let you go, you'd go inta shock. 'S what the OJ's fer - Masen tells me you got a history of acute stress disorder, so yer jus' gonna have ta go on ahead an' take my word fer it."

I swallow, disbelief coloring every thought. "I. Couldn't. _Possibly_ feel any shittier than I do right now."

"You wanna maybe not pose that like a challenge?" Jasper's eyes narrow and he tilts his head, hugging his arms tighter together. "I can drop you, if only ta prove it's me what can catch you - an' I _will_ do 'xactly that if yer gonna be a fuckstain about this."

"If I'm going to be a fuckstain about _what_, exactly." I laugh, and my voice is high and airy and exactly as unmanly as I didn't want it to be just then. "About the fact - no, the _suspicion_ that I'm only here in Phoenix to _say goodbye_ to my mom and stepfamily? That the whole running-away ploy could double as an out for the Cullens, if and when I get ground into so much nefarious plot-burger at Carlisle's mysterious fucking whims? Or are you talking about the _actual fact_ that you could kill me in this room, right now - " I set the juice to the TV table, scrabbling my fingers through the air, "- do the, the mysterious _patron_ thing to me, and then - then WHAT THE FUCK EVER?" I slam my hands back against the table, huffing, heat building under my collar. "Because at this point, buddy, I _don't give a fuck_ either way. I just need to not feel so fucking _scared_; and what the actual flippering _fuck_ do you mean, that you _wanted_ me? That you _want_ -" I fling an arm out, accusing wordlessly, then waving frantically as if to scrub the implication out.

I felt the drop. Jasper glanced away and the world rocked itself out from under me. Everything came pounding in all at once - the vicious spike of adrenaline, the pounding headache and breathless tension of an oncoming sob - things I couldn't let out for how densely packed they were, all together, tumbling to the forefront to bring me literally to a knee. My vision swam, darkened, I choked on air and a pale, scarred hand caught me under the chest to prevent the wobbling face-plant into the shitty airport hotel carpeting.

"Hey," Jasper greeted, low and fervent. "It ain't no kinda betrayal, you an' Masen."

Relief crept in, alien, unexplained, a feeling I could clearly identify as _influenced_. I laughed, incredulous, a manic cackle as my forehead met the bony curve of Jasper's shoulder. "Not like, you know, he's my boyfriend or anything." I hiccough.

Jasper pulls me easily to a stand, hands hovering near my elbows should I totter forward again. "Ain't no kinda betrayal then, neither, you an' me. I walked this green earth long enough t'know the particulars 'bout this sorta thang. But all you gotta know right now, ta putcher self at ease? 'S that I can't risk it. Not fer myself, not ta take you outta turn like that."

"Oh goddammit, just shut the fuck up," I plead, breathless, fist bunching in Jasper's shirtfront. My voice warbles forth, an unsteady soldier marching through on its wounded resolve, "You know I want to fuck you, you _stupid_ sonofabitch." Because I _did _want me a piece of that cowboy cake, and I had been informed by Edward himself that Jasper felt similarly, and this was all such an awkward clusterfuck, and _argh_. "You keep taking it away from me - the panic, the anger? All I got left is this _want_ - and it's selfish and cruel and fucking stupid and I feel like a godamned _asshole_, with your family in danger trying to keep _my_ family out of danger, and here I am left with nothing to think about but all the dick I want to try and suck before _I die_." I inhale sharp, grasping feebly for the lifeline to my more situation-appropriate angst. "So if you could go ahead and 'drop me' and let me stay dropped, I can _process_ some of this shit, instead of, fucking I dunno, letting it build up to a degree whereas I _can't_ fucking handle it?"

"Compromise," Jasper drawls, voice close against my ear. We are crowded together like prom dates on the fucking dance floor, and I am, to my continued shame and horror, pressing the lower half of my face against the collar of Jasper's thermal shirt to inhale the scent of tobacco and cedar. Jasper leans me upright to make eye contact. "I let you handle yer panic bit by bit, and you shut the fuck up an' maybe pretend like you _don't_ want me ta bend you over an' mount you like a two-cent Sally."

My mouth twists in residual embarrassment. "Was that ever me, even? Or just you?"

"It's you." The immediateness of Jasper's answer was a bit - well, I mean but - and then - "In fact, not ta dodge responsibility here or nothin', but it's _been_ you entirely. Living, I didn't like ta visit that partic'lar fishin' hole, catch m'drift."

I blink. "What's your being dead got to do with it?"

"Certain prejudices of physical disuse, vulnerabilities from my fuckin' special powers 'a influence, and near abouts two-hundred years of watchin' social changes cycle through they equally _severe_ conservations_ '_n degradations."

"...So you _do_ get a kick out of arguing Emmett into knots." The laugh dies in my throat, and I swallow. We're still just _standing_ there, close, though I've dropped my eyes from Jasper's face to his neck.

"Yes I do, an' that's another thang we share in c-"

"Don't," I warn, because I had wanted to leave that unsaid. I didn't just _like_ this guy because he was a total badass doe-eyed awshucksma'am hottieMcHotterson, we had the same... _something_. Thought patterns? Sense of humor? Love of unadulterated tobaccos and folksy Indie music? "So uh," I swallow, hand scrambling to reach the bottle of juice, catching up short when I find it too easily. "How about giving me some of _me_ back? Right now? Let me melt down just a little bit?"

Jasper hums his answer, glancing up around the room. "Y'can't be fightin' it; can't make it all-or-nothin' like yer doin' right now or I won't be able ta keep hold."

"Uhh. How - how do I _not_?"

Jasper's smile echoes that which he had shown at Esme's dinner table - brief but genuine. Fond, maybe cheerful or indulgent. "Don't even know yer own strength, huh?" The hand that lays against the side of my neck is cool and dry, and my stomach stutters out a shivering clench as Jasper's fingers curl around the back of my neck. I feel a tug, then everything is black and silent and not too warm and not too cold and there is

nothing.

* * *

When I woke, it was to confusion. The haze of nightmares clung to my thoughts, and I felt gutted the way I could feel after a good hard cry (which I hadn't experienced since the last epic fight with Renee and consequent exile from Gordon's life). The short and long of it, o my patient audience, was that I was _done_. Emotionally, I mean. I had been marathon'd around the figurative fucking panic room, _in my sleep_, and only had to catch my figurative breath. My face was wet across the bridge of my nose and side of my temple, tears soaked in to the cotton covering Jasper's chest - on which my head now rested as the television strobed its light across the otherwise dark room.

I tried to reach up to scrub at my face, but the thought of moving seemed far away and impossible. I shifted my head instead, sniffling against the cedar-and-smoke of Jasper's shirt, temporarily dislodging the fingers curled into my hair. I croak out, voice soft and parched, "Dude, if you totally just date-raped me, I'mma tell my boyfren' on you."

Without missing a beat, "I ever put any part 'a myself inta any part 'a _you_, ain't gonna be no 'if' about it. You'd know."

Because I'm a weirdo pervert, this reassurance gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling deep in the pit of my stomach - and the hum comes out to match, smile hidden against the curve of Jasper's ribs as I attempt to wriggle on off of him. The fingers reappear in my hair, curling into a fist, tugging me back up to rest against the cool, hard flat of Jasper's chest. My eyes roll up and I groan, fingertips inching across the small span of bedcover between us to latch onto one of Jasper's beltloops. "Don't," I whine, tugging at the waist of his jeans to pull myself closer to him. "Jesusfuck you smell good."

"Mmhm," Jasper agrees archly, knuckles massaging just under the back curve of my skull. "Died on a field; didn't hafta suffer the paralytic uncertainty of an embalment - they jus' threw me in a wooden box an' shuffled me on into a hole."

"What's it like," I mumble into the cold damp of Jasper's shirt, "That? Dying, and becoming like how you are?" The television is advertising the strongest fucking paper towel on the whole goddamn planet like that shit is probably used in space to line astronaut suits or some fucking thing.

Jasper turns the TV off, leaving us in darkness so heavy it makes my ears ring. "Hurts like a motherfucker, no lie. Takes its time peelin' every nerve raw, too. Took Carlisle hisself three days ta succumb - and then you gotta go into stasis and nobody knows the whole while if it really takes t'ya or not, the change. So the funerals hafta happen, 'cos you don't wanna wait and try and bury someone in fronta they family if they newly changed and all kindsa squirrely like a newborn's gonna be - feral, like, see -" Jasper shifts, grunting softly in indecision. "Attackin' folks 'cos they got no control. 'S no good. So your ass gets the whole treatment, if yer unlucky this includes the formaldehyde - which acts ta prolong the stasis and keep yer ass manageable once y'_do_ change. If all that human blood gets left in yer veins, then you get ta be one strong sorta trouble fer a bit, stronger than yer patron even. 'S no good."

"That doesn't ever go away? Smelling like that?"

"Carlisle explained it real good, once, but I forget most of it." I can feel Jasper rock slightly beneath me, hear the rustle as he expresses words hither and yon with the hand not pinned between us. "People, an' animals and th' like, they run around with these physical barriers 'tween they corporeals and the world around 'em. They got organs that help 'em sense the world - ear bits fer sound, eyesight, smellin' parts - and they also got things t'keep certain shit out. Skin, feathers or fur, keepin' out the wind an' weather. But maybe an animal gets struck by lightning, right? Boom, fried, and neither the things it got ta help it sense shit can do nothin' for predictin' against _that_, nor can its skin or feathers or shell or bone keep that lightning from cooking its unfortunate carcass. Being dead the way I am? There's lightning everywhere. In everything. We ain't being cooked, really, but we can sense this metaphorical lightning - the smaller, unaccustomed energies normal people and animals get ta be immune to. Like how dogs can smell in layers, y'know? Or like how cats look fit ta be livin' in a different world entirely? That's us. We plumb _steeped_ in the layers of the physical world; wading in this mess, and some of us have different ways of bein' able ta see, or smell, or _know_ things what normal people cannot find theyselves fuckin' privy.

"When that connection is in its formative state? 'S when the surroundings matter the most. 'S also why it's important, _who_ it is trynta forge a change, a connection, with they intended - 'cos a body what rejects that connection on the merits 'a coy genetic fuckery gets a buffet fucking menu on what could go wrong with their end result. Death bein' the most merciful, I tell ya. 'S why they get a smell about them, from wherever they were when the change happened, and a gift from whomever it was facillitatin' that change. Most jus' smell like the dirt of they burial and don't suffer no extreme gifts one way or t'other. If it goes bad, say, the way it went bad with Esme? The connection ain't so strong, maybe, and that individual walks a weak fuckin' path the rest of its days. Think about it like maybe bakin' a loaf of bread, and you gotta have the right ingredients an' the right kinda stove, or you end up with somethin' raw on the inside, burnt on the outside, and smellin' like wet pine."

I tuck a hand near my mouth, fingers curled against Jasper's middle. "With you so far."

"The stronger you might result ta be in the end, the easier it would be ta get rid of that formative smell, maybe sleep a while somewheres you wanna smell more like, perfume the fuck outta some nice coffin and getcher ass buried in loam or cement or what the fuck ever. Carlisle had a real strong change but his ass _still _ smells like the rotting pile 'a potatoes he had ta hide in, so what the fuck do I know."

"Maybe you can just tell that because _you can just fucking tell that_. I don't think Carlisle smells like potatoes. He smells mostly like doctoring stuff - antiseptic and latex gloves and shit."

Jasper grunts a contemplative agreement, dropping his arm back to the bed with a small tremor of the highly sensitive springs below us. "What's Masen smell like ta you, I wonder."

"Okay, stop _calling_ him that. We have a teacher goes by _Mason_ and it wigs me out to hear the similarity. _Edward_ smells like the ground, generally. As do you."

"Th'fuck I do," Jasper protests, and it's a genial sort of banter we're having and I feel hollowed-out but strangely _okay_ with everything. "Maria got me in a fancy fuckin' box and turnt the funeral out like I was some native prince gettin' sent back to the desert rock. I know I gotta smell like incense 'r copper nails or sacrificial wine or some shit." The bed shakes with silent laughter.

"What? You don't know?"

"'Course I don't. _Y'all_ know what _you_ smell like, ta us?"

"Okay, _well_. I don't think copper nails have a smell, so -"

"_You_ smell like sunshine on a boardwalk path, like summer heat in the blue grass and dry granite in the wind. Must be you come from some sorta city arrangement, in a warm place, right?"

I'm too stunned to really answer right away - because did Jasper get that from Edward, or did Edward read that from him? Or was it just that I actually did kind of smell like all of those things? "We're in my hometown, Cheaterstink. Of course you fucking know I'm _from here, a warm city place_."

Jasper grunts, unimpressed. The phone had started to ring at the tail-end of my accusation, and I roll to my side to free Jasper to answer the call. He leaves the bed, the phone's backlight temporarily washing the pale walls around us in blue before he disappears behind the bathroom door. I grope for the misplaced bottle of juice, find a lukewarm bottled water instead, check the bedside clock and can't muster the brainpower to decide if it's three o'clock in the a.m. or p.m. The water leaves my mouth strangely dryer than before and I force more of it down, stomach too sore from all the clamping and huff-sobbing I must have gotten up to in my sleep to really be in the mood for the eating of solids, besides the fact that I was aimlessly horny and that never did anything good for my appetite. Half the reason I wasn't a total plus-sized chubby was because I got myself laid so much - otherwise I would have faced the chocolate-covered potato-chip road to gay bachelor limbo.

- Which, you know, wouldn't have been _so bad_ really, except the fact that chubbiness only looks good on bears and I couldn't grow a beard to save my life, _thanks Obama_.

I try desperately to overhear Jasper's phonecall from the bed, but he's only giving perfunctory acknowledgment and I struggle to forget the evidence that we even _had similar phone-conversation tactics,_ a lot of one-lining and grunted reassurance. _As if_ I needed any more strokes to the ol' death-boner.

Jasper reappears just as I've left the bed to check the curtain. "They done lost track 'a the Hunter, and seems like Victoria was quick to follow after. Alice is gonna go ahead and join us, while the split teams take another go-around and make sure she ain't bein' followed. We got till nightfall 'fore she'll be able ta board a plane."

Daylight sears briefly across the inside of my eyeballs and I let the curtain-gap fall closed again. "I think I'm gonna step outside for a bit. Get some food, stretch my legs." I fumble for a lamp, fingers colliding with Jasper's as he assists.

Jasper's pupils are wide despite the lamplight. "Order room service."

I crack half a smile, cross my arms. "It's the middle of the day. No way our baddies are _here_, much less mobile."

Jasper sits back in his usual position on the bed, city map balanced on his knee. "Y'like ta test authority jus' fer the hell of it, or are you _actually_ that stupid? 'Cos I gotta tell ya, I led both types through the war, an' not a single desertion on record."

I scoff, and maybe it's the low blood-sugar talking, "Unless one of your leadership tactics was the world's best blowjob...? I? Am going to _go_ -" I walk my fingers across my forearm, for illustration. "_Out_. Please don't _actually_ try to physically OR psychically restrain me." This said as I make my way toward the room's overlarge closet, where sat my gutted suitcase and all the clothes surrounding it.

"Ain't a psychic," Jasper mumbles, and the snap of paper narrates his renewed interest in the Phoenix's street layout.

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah?" The sharp uptick in Jasper's tone rankles me enough to look over my shoulder - but he's talking into his phone and suddenly I am slightly more interested in hanging around. "Yeah," Jasper continues, relaxing. "Here," he waves the phone my way and my heart gets lodged in my throat. Was it the Sheriff? I was planning on calling him once I had my wits back in order and some brain fuel in me, o god I wasn't prepared I wasn't -

I hardly get a breath in before the voice on other end of the line cuts my panic in half, "Bernardo."

I deflate, _physically_, shrinking to the edge of the bed, cradling the phone against my ear like it was some form of tiny baby fauna about to tell me a very precious secret. "Heya, Ed." Tears hedge in at the borders of my voice, but I'm too _done_ to feel any build-up or sting. "How goes the hunt?"

Edward sounds equally breathless, equally lost for words. "Er - forestalled, until nightfall. We can travel, but we don't really have a destination besides the airport, around which we will wait until Alice has rejoined you. Was there something you needed to relay?" I hadn't heard the phone ring - had Jasper _called_ Edward to keep me here?

"Relay? Uh. Like, to other people? No. Umm. Good luck, maybe?" I rolled my eyes in frustration, glaring openly at Jasper, who was now speaking into the room's landline, reading from one of those room-service brochure menu things they leave beside the phones. "Don't anyone risk anything important on my account." I laugh, and the sound is forced and ugly and exhausted.

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and though I can't hear the patient breath, I can imagine it steeling Edward's resolve to completely ignore any self-loathing I might still express around him. "Charlie fares well. He called Carlisle in attempt to broker a discussion - the new chapter in our fiction follows that Carlisle over-reacted, Esme gave him a very stern talking-to, and they both want me home. No emancipation necessary."

I let those words stand on their own, sagging back onto the bed with a breathy laugh that leaves my insides weak and weightless.

Edward continues, "Which, you know, _is_ a bit of a disappointment. I'm always keen to find my way early from the nest, and would have liked to establish a set of apartments."

"Mmm, heh." I nod, eyes drifting shut as I reclined against the bedpillows. "A set?"

"One in or near Forks," Edward explains, succinct, "And another in or near the campus of your college choice."

"Oooh," I laugh, every reaction a watered-down echo of what I might have felt or said. "And what if I had a handful of college choices, hm?"

"Then I would have a handful of apartments, Bernardo."

"Don't say it like that," I moan, and the back of my skull thunks against the headboard. "Like it's_ obvious_. Like people just _collect_ empty apartments."

"I admit - the more schools you'd have been applied to, all the more humble the apartments would have been. Still and all, it's no longer a plan I need pay its merit."

"Dude, you graduate before me anyway. You can do the apartment thing."

"I'm sure I've fallen into a deeply personal, er, some sort of _lack_, of emotional recovery, probably - and my grades are going to suffer enough to keep me behind a year."

"Ooh." I laugh, and for once the sound doesn't leave me gutted. "You'd do that, man? Suffer an extra year of _highschool_ just to hang out with lil' ol' me?"

Edward's voice does the thing it does where it goes all dark and quiet, "I'd suffer far more than that, Bernardo; you know this."

"Yeah, but, _dude... Teenagers._" I am assaulted by chuckling - Edward's reluctant humoring in one ear and Jasper's scoffing agreement in the other. I snap my fingers at Jasper to shut the fuck up, because that joke wasn't _for him_ and it rankled me for reasons unknown that he found it all that funny.

"Yes, well," Edward drew the word out to its painstaking search for anything more to say. "Some of us _are_ still technically teenagers - eternally so. I might convey small dramatics and poor decision-making skills myself, every once in a long while."

Jasper snorts, "Try 'always', Hoss."

I ignore this, though I can practically feel the icy glare on the other end of the line, because _haw_, vampires have super-sonic hearing and fancy phones are great at picking up sound! Ffff. "Eddie, buddy, sexy?" I interrupt the brewing passive-aggression. "You remember that thing I told you before I left?"

Edward seems unsure, but his answer is quick enough - "Yes. You have my love as well."

"Nooo, hahaha. I mean the _thing_. About how you're gonna show up. It's like, _the most_ important detail. Don't forget it in the midst of all this tracking-and-killing hullabaloo."

"Bernardo," Edward chastises, but there's a smile somewhere in there. "I'll be taking the plane with everyone else."

"Right, right. But I mean - what are we _driving_ back from the airport? To get back to Forks?" I can hear Edward stall, and know that I've got him. "Because I will ride. In the _trunk_. Of Rosalie's car before I'll get back in that stupid, cursed fucking Volvo of yours, babe."

"I like to think the car more the haven after the storm. It has seen us during some bad times, but hardly preceded them."

My voice rises to argumentative levels, "You are _not_ losing your virginity in _that fucking car_, Edward! I WILL REFUSE. Fuck's sake, _my boner_ will refuse!" I pull the phone close to my mouth, lower my voice to a hiss. "No. _Volvo_." I toss the phone Jasper's way, whose teeth were flashing in a silent open-mouthed laugh.

Jasper catches the phone and mumbles something vaguely inflammatory into the receiver, before he is occupied with another round of one-word answers to questions I can't hear.

By the time I'm showered and dressed, the room service trolley has arrived and I've no excuse to leave by, appetite prodded into a fury by the savory aroma of the three-course meal under its shiny metal domes.

* * *

**: X :**

_I am making up names and places and that is a thing you might not even care about_  
_so. I am also trying to explain what I thought was a pretty big plot-hole regarding  
Bella's_ _immunities and how it was that Jasper's influence worked on her when nothing  
else_ _really seemed to. I know this was originally to highlight Edward's specialness  
with Bella,_ _but the immunity from Edward very quickly became a powers-mulligan  
that seemed to be used __with other vampires at random and by no concrete rules or  
application._

_Sorry if you don't really like Jasper or agree with that shift in focus. The setup plays a_  
_pretty important role later on, in keeping stride with the whole 'you don't want me to be_  
_your vampire dad cos thats so gross' shindig from Ed. #spoilers_


End file.
